


Wyrd / Urðr

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Characters not canon, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Farm girl Sansa, Mildly Dubious Consent, Old Norse, Swedish Language, Viking Sandor, Vikings, character divergence, not in Westeros, old english, sansan, strong sansa, tattooed Sandor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27190492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: SanSan / Not in Westeros / Vikings MashupIf you crave a romance that starts with a kidnapping, dives into 800 AD Viking politics, and ends in a love for the ages--then this is the fic for you. Sandor is a Jarl from Svearike (Sweden at the time) turning his people west for greener, better raiding territory. Sansa is a young English farm girl caught up in one of his raids. A story focused on fate (wyrd / urðr), and the difference between cultures, Sansa is thrown head first into a society where prowess on the battlefield is essential and the desire to go to Valhalla strong. Little does she know that the Nornorna (goddesses of fate and destiny) have in store for her and her unlikely warrior companion.There are dubious interactions between these characters, but I did not hit the warning on this subject as they remain such :-) This story is very different from anything I've ever written. The amazing and supportive Islandida has been both my cultural guide and my Swedish  language editor. Without her consent and support I would not have published this fic!
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 420
Kudos: 452





	1. Chapter 1: Raiders from the North / Norðd¯æl eorð−bûend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Islandida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islandida/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sansa Washed Ashore](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741813) by [swimmingfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox). 



> So you've decided to go down the rabbit hole and read this SanSan in the Viking age mashup. Whoot Whoot!!! Congrats!
> 
> A few notes on how to read this. Our characters speak different languages, so their dialogues will always be a mix. Don't panic! That's the way it's intended to be. 
> 
> Chapters 1 and 2 overlap completely, so you will see what Sandor says in due time. In other chapters where there is less or no overlap translations will be provided at the end of chapter notes. Sit back and just enjoy not knowing some things :-)
> 
> Also, if you like this kind of setup then you must read Swimmingfox's series, "Sansa Washed Ashore." It was partly this and partly watching the series Vikings that got me totally hot for a tatted up, Viking Sandor. *blush* 
> 
> Islandida has been invaluable in making the Viking culture shine in this fic. Without her support I would not publish a chapter, as it's important for me to give realistic and positive insights into her history. So thank you, this fic is dedicated to you :-) 
> 
> Redbirdblackdog has also put together this wonderful picset and I can't thank her enough for that, and totally turning me on to Rollo. I mean, what a damn hottie ;-)

# 

# Chapter 1: Raiders from the North / Norðd¯æl eorð−bûend

Her ears were playing tricks on her, of that Sansa Stark was almost certain. Telling herself that the ringing she heard was not that of the village raid bells, the young farm girl continued peeling apples. Even then time seemed to slow down. Her well practiced motions were both crisp and painstakingly deliberate. Everything around her stood eerily still, even her breathing. Her pale skin pricked as if it knew something was afoot before her own eyes and ears could make sense of it. Yet try as she might to ignore the horrid sound of the alarm, it just kept coming. Louder and faster the bells rang until she could no longer deny reality.

It was the smell of smoldering wood and thatch that finally awoke her good sense. Raiders from the North, Vikings they were called. Sansa had heard tell of these people as she sold vegetables and goats at the market near the coast. Not one tale spoke of kindness or generosity. It was said they left no man, woman, or child alive. It was said they raped and pillaged with unspeakable brutality. It was said that, sometimes, they took slaves back to the strange land from which they came. 

_And now they’re here and I’m alone,_ Sansa’s blood ran cold.

They shouldn’t have come this far inland. Sansa’s father had always told her they raided the coast, preferring to come and go quickly in their huge wooden ships. The small farming community in which she lived was at least a day’s walk removed from the shore, too much trouble for those who would steal from others for their bread. So she had not protested as the men of her small village went on an extended hunt, leaving the women and children to defend their homes. 

_We’ve always been safe here_ , she thought, _there’s never been any cause to protect ourselves except against bears or wolves._ They were simple farmers, not warriors. Her father and brother knew nothing of swords and shields, even if they could put a well fletched arrow through a deer’s heart at range.

Screams could now be heard, the cries of women and young boys swirled around her making it hard to orient herself. There was chaos in her normally quiet settlement, blood drenching its barren fields. Sansa couldn’t understand why the Northmen were here. There was nothing to take. With the harvest completed early, the farmers had begun selling the overflow to neighboring villages and storing the rest for the winter. In this tiny farming community there was no wealth, no luxuries. The town had a small market and a church. Otherwise the people here worked their land in relative peace--everybody knew everybody and mostly kept to themselves.

Sansa dropped the apple, watching it bounce on the dirt floor of her modest home, and sucked in breath. It was like her feelings were not her own. The desire to defend her small patch of family lands overwhelmed her, making her heart pound against her ribs. This small wooden shack, with a fair bit of farm and pasture land attached to it, was where she had been born. It was where she had the last memories of her mother before she died. It was where the young farm girl planned to live until she married. 

This bit of nothing with some fertile soil was her home, and Sansa knew she’d rather die than watch it destroyed.

Sticking her pairing knife in the tight space between the back of her apron and her dress, Sansa ran out of the small hovel and searched for a weapon. The art of war and the use of weapons was not taught to women, but Sansa had swung an axe her entire life to make wood for the fire. _This will do,_ she told herself confidently in bid to calm her nerves. 

Sansa advanced toward the chopping block, grabbing the huge tool by the handle and yanking it deftly from its resting place. She eyed it critically a moment, _You’re sharp enough to split wood, but will hold up against human bone and flesh?_ The very idea made her bristle, but there was no time to dwell on it.

What met her eyes as she rounded her small home was utter chaos. There was death in the fields and smouldering fires in nearly all the homes. Smoke clouded what would have been a beautiful late summer day. The smell overtook her nostrils, making her cough and wipe her eyes. The light breeze brought with it embers from the neighboring homes making it impossible to see too far ahead. Had it not been for the screams of others around her, Sansa could have very well been alone in the grayness that covered the village like a thick fog on a fall day.

Taking a few steps around, Sansa peered into the smoke. Boys and women were being murdered, valuables were being taken, animals rounded up. Sansa’s eyes shifted from left to right, assessing the state of her small community. It amazed her how quickly everything they had built over her short lifetime could be so easily destroyed. Just poof, gone in the blink of an eye and the flash of a foreign blade. The wind whipped Sansa’s hair around infront of her face, as if attempting to shield her from the pain and loss.

Sansa trudged a few steps in another direction, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the light of the sun breaking through the smoke. The women at the market had spoken of hundreds of barbaric raiders descending on a large city or town, yet this party seemed smaller. _A few curious men driven inland to find more treasure, perhaps? A reconnaissance party even._ Sansa couldn’t be sure, but that didn’t mean they were any less frightening. 

The Vikings wore their hair in a strange fashion, long and braided. Some tied it together with pieces of leather or beads. Depending on the man, parts of their hair would be shaved off in a manner Sansa had never seen before. Their painted faces struck terror in the heart of any normal man, dark colors used so they could hide amongst the shadows. Only the whites of their eyes were visible. They all carried weapons, some even shields though there was no need for it here. Unless you considered a pitchfork or a plow dangerous in the hands of a normally peaceful farmer.

Sansa stood at the ready, knowing the wave of men and death would inevitably reach her just as the smoke of the burning farm houses had. There was no need to wait long, one of the raiders zeroed in on her immediately. He made his approach quickly, a devil’s grin on his ugly face. The Viking was of average build, wearing a dark tunic with leather armor. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach knowing only one of them would walk away from this fight, and knowing the odds were not in her favor. 

This knowledge didn’t mean the young farm girl was willing to back down. If anything, it ignited her instinct to fight. One she never knew, or wanted to know, she had. Swallowing Sansa squared off with him--axe at the ready. The bearded warrior merely laughed at her, seeing nobody else around to come to her aid. Dropping his weapon to the ground he inched toward her, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face at the very idea of how helpless she seemed.

“Leave!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, fear and nerves making her shake as she did so. It was folly to think a bit of bravado would make him slink away like a black bear in the night, but it was the only thing she had.

The Viking lurched forward and Sansa swung with all the blind force and power in her body. It was surreal watching its blade go clean through his arm and into his chest, but it did. She had split the extremity like she would any ordinary piece of wood. It was even scary to think how quickly and easily she had severed it from the rest of him. The raider’s eyes opened wide in shock, the scream that came to his lips, blood curdling. 

Sansa had aided in the slaughter of animals before, but never had she hurt another human being. It was different, so very different. The young woman did not know if it was exciting or terrifying, the realization of how close those two emotions were startled her. 

As her attacker began to falter, Sansa felt the axe slipping from her sweaty grasp. She followed the man to the floor, unwilling to let him take her weapon from her, even if he was ill disposed to do anything with it. Putting her foot on his chest she pulled the axe out, blood splattered back covering her face. Her victim wailed in pain, as if only now realizing the seriousness of the wounds she had inflicted. 

_I can’t leave him like this,_ she thought watching him in the grips of a slow and painful death. She was not a barbarian, she had some mercy. Steeling herself, Sansa took a swing again, pretending she was beheading a chicken as her normal chores demanded. Her downward swing was true and forceful. His screaming stopped instantly even if his eyes rolled around in his severed head wildly and his body still twitched. 

_Just like a chicken,_ she realized frightened by the ease with which she had killed this man. Sansa stared at his face, twisted in an eternal agony. It was something she would not soon forget. _My first kill and my first victory,_ it was a bittersweet thought. One she was not able to understand.

Turning she saw yet another dark haired man. He was angry at the sight of his dead brother-in-arms, Sansa could see it in the way he gripped his sword and how he ran at her yelling at the top of his lungs. There wasn’t much time to think, much less be afraid of his barbaric war cry. By the grace of god he tripped on a rock and, as he stumbled past her, Sansa swung at his back. Stepping in as best she could and using her torso to create more power, her efforts were rewarded as she struck him in his spine. The Viking fell instantly, her axe lodged so well in his back that he brought her down as well. Yet Sansa got up quickly, pulling the axe from the man’s body and bludgeoning him in the face until he stopped moving. She didn’t even realize how covered in blood she was, nor did she care. Her anger at what was happening to her village gripped her, taking over in ways that frightened the young farm girl. 

Air filled her lungs and Sansa took a moment to thank God she was alive. This breath was a reminder of a life she held so dear. However her enjoyment would be short lived, the feeling that she was being watched pulling her from her revery. Sansa turned, a scream lodged in her throat at the sight of the third Northman. The raider approached her cautiously, his broad back to the sun nearly blotting it out. He was the biggest man she had ever seen, nearly 7 feet tall and muscled like a bull. The shadow he cast on her engulfed her small frame. A feeling of helplessness took over, recoiling Sansa felt her body shake in fear.

His barreled chest was tattooed in two circular patterns. The left side had the face of a beast with a long curled body. Sansa could see this monster had claws and a long tongue, but it was unlike any animal she had ever seen. It looked ready to strike, it’s mouth open in a warklike angry cry. On his right shoulder and down his upper arm were the wings and head of a raven. The detailing on the feathers of this bird was quite remarkable, its eye seemingly fixated on her no matter how the Viking stood across from her. From the man’s right forearm down to his fingers there were patterns of a concentric nature. They were so well done and so even that Sansa wondered how long it took a man to do this kind of thing. The young farm girl found her mouth hung open in surprise. She did not know what kind of a man he was, but she knew pain did not phase him, not with such things etched into his skin.

“Tar du mig till Valhalla också, min lilla Valkyria?” She could hear his words, but they held no meaning to her. “Jag är inte rädd för att dö.” He looked at the dead men around her but was not angry. If anything, there was an unsettling sort of peace about him.

The Viking began to circle her slowly, his stormy grey eyes all the more accentuated against his dark war paint. Yet it was his face that instilled true terror in the young farm girl. He was disfigured. Most of the right side of his face had been severely burned, the left side held a masculine beauty to it. Rugged, sun kissed, and certainly not uncomely Sansa could not imagine the physical pain he must have lived through to have such a face. On the burned side of his head, the hair had been shaved back, a dark sea monster tattoo curled up his neck toward this ear. It was a frightening thing, a devil from a nightmare. Her attacker wore a short beard with copper baubles hanging from it. His hair was long, well past his shoulders and it flew wildly in the wind.

“Att titta på ditt ansikte kan tillfredsställa en man för en livstid,” his voice rumbled low and deep. The monster of a man continued to circle her, as one might an opponent. Sansa knew instantly he was unlike the others. He was treating her with caution, sizing her up so as not to arrive at the same fate as his comrades. The Viking rolled the hilt of his sword deftly in his right hand. Waiting, watching, his eyes flickering with curiosity and something more.

Sansa trembled as she held the axe, shrinking away from him. _Is he taunting me? Toying with me before he sends me to meet my maker? Or worse, uses me for his own carnal pleasures._ The scars on his body told the tale of a man accustomed to war and violence. One who had stared death in the face and spat back at it. The farm girl held no illusions of grandeur, and by no means over estimated her own abilities on the battlefield. 

The huge Warrior stopped in front of her, inspecting her face in great detail,“Do har jag sett dig tidigare i mina drömmar. Jag vet att våra öden är sammanvävda av Nornorna.” 

Tears ran down Sansa’s cheeks. He was a pagan devil come to earth to kill and to take. “You won’t take me,” she screamed. “You won’t take me!” She repeated herself with more vigor, hoping to scare him off. Her attempt at intimidation only seemed to bring the corner of his mouth to twitch in amusement. 

The giant of a man took a step forward, kicking up some dirt as he did so. Sansa stepped back, unwilling to let him get any closer than arm’s length. “Det är synd att dessa män inte visste att jag är den enda som gudarna har ansett vara dig värdig,” the Viking grinned at her then, a fire in his eyes smouldering hotter than that of the burning houses surrounding them. 

Nothing else around her mattered, the destruction of her small town, the screams of death that enveloped them. All Sansa saw was him, and all she wanted to do was show him she did not fear him. 

“Kom, lilla fågel. Visa mig din styrka,” he motioned with his hand for her to come to him. 

Blind anger and fear overtook Sansa. She hated them for destroying things they had no right to, for killing and pillaging from her friends and neighbors. She wanted to see her father again, she wanted to see her family again. Sansa wanted to take the first step, wanted to draw first blood. With all her might, she lunged toward him and swung her axe. The Viking sidestepped, smacking her on the butt with the flat of his sword. The impact threw off her balance slightly, but she turned around quicker than he had anticipated and swung again. This time she saw the whites of his eyes as the head of the axe missed his chest by a hair. 

The Viking warrior smiled broadly, it was a cringe worthy expression. “Så ja, mitt hjärta. Visa mig vad Odin har gett dig,” he yelled toward her. There was an enjoyment to their little game that made Sansa sick to her stomach. She wanted nothing more than to wipe that twisted grin off of his marred face. 

“AHHHHHH!” Sansa screamed with all her might and came at him again. This time, however, he was ready. He caught both her hands in one of his. The impact sent the weapon flying head over handle into the distance. With one quick sweep of his leg she fell backward, her eyes suddenly on the blue sky of an otherwise beautiful day. 

The Viking was on top of her now, his sword hastily discarded. They were struggling, she against his strength and he against her speed. _His eyes I have to blind him_. Curling her fingers, Sansa clawed at his face, her desperation boiling to the surface. The first few times her hands flew to his cheeks they missed, her opponent pulling his face just out of reach. It was only pure luck that she finally caught him with her nails. Blood formed on the burned side of his cheek where she had dug in under his right eye. The flaky damaged skin curled under her fingernails as she left him something to remember her by. 

Sansa mustered all of her strength she could to fight him off. Her legs kicked at him wildly, her hips bucked against his in an attempt to throw her monstrous attacker off balance. If there was one thing that helped her in this terribly unfair fight, it was the slipperiness of her wrists. Blood and sweat were her friends, allowing her to move them quickly, keeping the Viking from snatching them both at the same time. 

Only managing to get one of her wrists in his grasp, he brought his other hand to her jaw. The warrior began to pry her mouth open to get a look at her teeth. _I’m not a goat for sale,_ the very meaning of what he was doing angered her beyond anything she had ever experienced.

The moment he wiggled a finger in her mouth she bit down hard, the taste of his blood filling her mouth. “Vid Hel” he pulled his finger back with a laugh and shook it, examining it as if to see if she had actually broken skin. 

What the Viking had not considered was the brief pause in their struggle had given her enough time to grab the paring knife with her free hand from behind her back. When he bent over her again she raised the knife up quickly and brought it down on him. Her aim was less than true. Instead of getting him in the throat, she buried the small knife in his chest. He sat back on his heels in surprise, looking down at the knife like he didn’t believe what had just happened to him. She too was in shock, because he had unwittingly let her go. Capitalizing on the moment, Sansa turned while on the ground and began to claw her way to her feet. Just as she started to make a run for it, he clipped her. His long fingers only just rolled off her ankles, tripping her up enough to have her fall flat on her face. 

She hit the ground hard and he was on top of her before she could breath. He whispered in her ear as she struggled beneath him, “Mitt hjärta. Mitt hjärta, var stilla.”

Sansa had deafened herself with her own screams, her throat scratchy and dry. Pushing her palms against the grass with all her might, the farm girl kicked her legs in a desperate search for weakness. Yet the more she fought the more she understood that he had no weakness. A devil from her darkest nightmares. 

The monstrous Raider was heavy on her back. His breath warm on her ear. As she wiggled and writhed beneath him it wasn’t just his chest she felt against her body, but the insistent pressure of his enormous manhood. Though a virgin, Sansa was not unaware of what happened between men and women. If anything it was this very knowledge that infuriated her, because the more she tried to free herself, the more the beast on top of her was becoming aroused. His steel length making its way toward womanhood. 

“Nooo! No!” Her voice sounded so desperate it almost wasn’t her own.

He smelled like the sea mixed with evergreens. Something of his world and something of her own. Yet that would do little to quell her desire for freedom. Sansa threw her head backward in the hopes of hitting him in the face, struggling against his enormous strength with all her little body had left. Of course she missed, only dirt and grass filled her nostrils. She was weakening and even then, he was far too powerful to fight off. Sansa felt dead inside as she realized there was no way out. 

“Det finns ingen skam i att förlora mot mig. Ingen skam alls,” he whispered in her ear. She hated his voice, she hated everything about him.

The monstrous Viking kissed her head, inhaling her scent as he did so, but continued to lay flat on her body. He would pin her there until she tired out. His heavy weight making it difficult to move, much less breath. Tears began to stain her cheeks, dirt clung to her face. Sansa couldn’t help but suck in grass and dust, the strength of her body waning. As she slowly came to terms with her fate, the tears fell thicker and harder. 

_He’ll defial me now. Rip the clothes from my body and do with me as he pleases. Then he’ll be gone before dark and I will be here. With nothing._ Her chest heaved, her lungs gasped for breath.

Sansa had never taken defeat easily. As a matter of fact she despised losing even in petty races with her brother down to the well. Yet, as her breathing evened Sansa knew her body had betrayed her, even if her mind had not given in. She stilled, the smell of the green grass mixing with the warrior’s scent of salt and wood. 

He laid atop her for quite some time, as if wanting to be extra sure she would not put up a fight. Once the barbarian was sure of her total capitulation, he bound her hands behind her back with a bit of rope from his belt. He then turned her over with care so she was laying on her arms and back. Sansa recoiled when she felt his hand on her ankle, whimpered as he raised her skirt to her mid-calf. His fingers were rough on her skin, their tips hot like fire. His eyes flickered from her legs to her face, there was no doubt in her mind he enjoyed touching her there. She kicked at him, for what good it did. He didn’t even raise his hands or flinch to defend himself.

“Don’t touch me!” She warned loud enough to hear above the sound of her village burning. His eyes raised to hers, “You’re a hideous beast.” The words came out of her mouth with enough contempt that he did not have to speak her language to know what she was saying.

He cared little for the cruelty of her tongue. It was clear to Sansa in this moment that he wore his disfigurement as a badge of honor. As if his obvious physical strength wasn’t enough to set him apart from the flock. His were a people who valued a man not for his looks but for his prowess in battle. Sansa remembered what the women at the market had said, that these Northmen fought without fear of death. They were a different, more powerful breed. And as her eye went over his naked torso, following every scar and every wound, Sansa confirmed for herself that the tales of these Northmen were true. 

_What hope do I have against him?_

The Raider ran an idle finger up her bare calf because he could, as if daring her to kick at him again. When she did not he chuckled to himself and bound her ankles so she could not flee. Then he straddled her body, his knees on either side of her hips. Sansa gasped, but never turned away from his face. 

_You will never see fear in my eyes again,_ she promised her captor in silence.

The huge Viking bent over her, their foreheads nearly touching. A filthy finger ran down her cheek lovingly, “Jag kommer aldrig att skada dig. Jag svär.”

Without warning Sansa spat in his ugly face, her glare reflecting her true feelings of disgust and anger. The Warrior’s eyes never left hers as he wiped her saliva from his cheek. His irises danced with excitement, her spirit filling him with pride instead of fuery. Without warning he kissed her. His lips came against hers in an insistent but gentle way. It was her first kiss ever, the shock of what he was doing not setting in until his tongue was already past her lips. The Raider used this large muscle to taste her, moving it against her teeth. Yet he did not invade her mouth fully. Instead he teased it, flicking his tongue around proding for a weakness waiting for her to let him in. His beard was rough against her chin, scratching her skin. His lips were soft though, their lust inspiring pressure keeping hers slightly parted. Her captor moaned, as if she was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted--something to savor. It surprised Sansa and she could not be sure if she was frightened or intrigued. 

Coming back to her senses and refusing to return his affections, Sansa tried to bite his tongue off. The Viking was quicker though, he moved as if he had anticipated her reaction, a sheepish grin on his face. Standing over her, Sansa’s he pulled her over his unhurt shoulder, wincing as he did so. It gave the young woman cause to smile, finding some satisfaction that she had made him bleed, weakened this powerful bull even just a little. It seemed he intended to take her as a slave, and if that was the case she would need to stay alert. There was at least a day’s worth of ground between here and his ships, enough for Sansa to plan her escape.

Sansa surveyed what was left of her village from her perch, bent over the giant warrior’s shoulder. Whatever fight there was in the people of her tiny settlement had been squashed quickly and with authority. There was no danger for these Northmen, no secret contingent of soldiers to protect her ravaged community. Those neighbors who stood up for their property had met their end. Those neighbors who had surrendered were taken for the raiders’ temporary comfort. 

The farm girl knew it was only a matter of time before she joined them, her body the vessel of pleasure for a godless pagen. The very thought of what debotercious things he would do freightened the young maiden, made her shiver even in the warm light of a late summer sun. Slumped over the raider’s massive shoulder, Sansa gritted her teeth and made a promise to herself, _No matter what I will not beg or plead. I will not let him see my tears. I will give him nothing, so he has nothing to take._


	2. Rauðr Valkyria / Red-Haired Valkyrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor Son of Clegane, finds a treasure more valuable than silver or gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Sansa's words we know from the first chapter. If there are any phrases that won't appear in Chapter 3, I'll translate them out for you at the end of the chapter :-)
> 
> Thank you so much for the great response on this fic. It's been fun to right and continues to teach me things every day!
> 
> We're going with Sandor Son of Clegane instead of Cleganesson because it's a bit more old school. In a funny way, Sandor's father has no name in the Clegane family tree, so he is literally the "son of clegane" so it fits really nicely if not unexpectedly. Obviously if Sandor and Sansa have any little viking babies....which I mean....it's more like when than if, they they would be the sons and daughters of Sandor ;-)
> 
> Some words that are useful to know:  
> Svearike - the area of Sweden before it was one kingdom
> 
> Huldror - norse nymphs known their sexual escapades, pointy noses, and tails.
> 
> Thrall - norse for slave
> 
> "Running from the vagina" - a norse saying for not getting married / finding a wife

# 

# Chapter 2: RauðrValkyria / Red-Haired Valkyrie

His instinct to go more inland had yielded poor results, and Sandor Son of Clegane was sure he’d never hear the end of it from his men. They’d accumulated a vast amount of riches last year raiding the coast of this new land they knew only as England. The days and weeks of this new raiding season had been, until now, well worth navigating the rough seas from Svearike. The coastal towns were wealthy. Their ability to trade both domestically and with foreign merchants allowed his band of raiders to amass riches Sandor had never seen before. Gold and silver bobbles, crosses for their god dipped in jewels. These things all had value where he came from, giving him and his people both wealth and renown. However this place, with no contact to the sea, housed only some farmers with their crops and animals. They had little to show for their toil in the fields, though their lands were more fertile than his own. There weren’t even any men there, only women and boys. 

His small band of loyal raiders had scouted the village from the wood’s edge for several hours. They had painted their faces dark and moved only when necessary, in order to not rouse the suspicion of the townsfolk. Not seeing a single male of fighting age moving about, they had concluded the men were working somewhere. Perhaps quarrying raw materials or engaged in trade. 

“Or these women live alone, stealing men into their beds only for their pleasure,” one of his brethren had suggested with a lascivious grin on his face. 

Sandor had chuckled quietly along with the others. It was not strange in and of itself to leave women and children to protect lands, he and his men did it often in the spring and summer. Yet these people, in this new place, were different. Most of the men did not fight, and the women seemed weak and helpless, not like those of Sandor’s beloved homeland. Squinting from his crouched position in the bush, the huge raider did not think these women were Huldror in disguise. Their noses were far too short and, try as he might, he could see no tails hiding under their skirts. He, of course, would not want his men to fall prey to their sexual diversions, but was confident these nymphs would not want to inhabit this place under the eye of a Christian god. 

Not expecting a huge fight, Sandor had left his shield and armor at the edge of the wood. A decision he did not regret as he and his small band of loot seeking companions decided to attack. They rolled through the area with little resistance. Those few who did fight were killed, because neither Sandor nor his men were interested in taking thralls. There was simply no room on their ships this time, given their raids some days ago. Those who didn’t fight would be shared amongst his men, their appetite for both gold and flesh nearly insatiable. 

There was little of note here. Some bags of grain and some livestock to take back with them, but nothing more. The church, which usually held vast riches in every town they had encountered on their raids, had only a wooden cross and two chalices made of silver. A meager haul for a holy place, hence it was not a surprise to Sandor that their god had forsaken them. Their god was weak, and the Viking took great pleasure in showing these people exactly that.

The smell of burning wood and thatch permeated the air and with it, embers and smoke were carried by the wind. A young farm boy, no older than fourteen came at him with a pitchfork. Sandor sidestepped and showed the boy the blade of his sword. It glided effortlessly across the young man’s abdomen, spilling his guts onto the grass. The farm boy fell, dead before he hit the ground. Sandor had no intention of making him suffer, the defense of his home and lands was an honorable pursuit which required an honorable death. 

_I wonder if this boy will dine with his god, given that it does not seem interested in war?_ Sandor often entertained such thoughts while away from home. This new place was interesting to him, its people and their ways as curious as they were odd.

It was only then, through the clouded air and to the background of screams and pillaging, that he saw _her_. The woman who had infected his dreams since he was a child. The whole world stopped in that moment while Sandor felt every hair on his body stand on end. His skin pricked in an excitement he only felt when in the heat of proper battle. The mighty warrior blinked several times, giving himself the chance to make sure his eyes were not lying to him. 

In his dreams this woman was the most beautiful red-haired Valkyria he had ever seen. Always with eyes as blue as the shallow sea, and skin as pale as the new snows. His fantasies would always play out in a similar fashion. Sandor would find her in the heat of battle, wandering the fields littered with death. She had a battle axe in her hand, sometimes two. Even as a boy his dreams had always been explicit. Their eyes would meet, and she would smile and reach her hand to him. They would go to Valhalla together, where they lived out eternity enjoying both the pleasures of war and the pleasures of the flesh. She would bear his children, giving him many healthy sons and one beautiful daughter. 

_A romance worthy of a saga,_ Sandor mouthed the words, his eyes locked on her.

This woman, a warrior of Odin, was always his and his alone in these dreams. Strong, beautiful, and fearless. _The perfect woman._ Sandor had only ever told the Seer about his dreams. As he grew older it had only been natural to be curious as to the nature of these late night thoughts. That’s how he knew not to take these visions literally. The Viking knew not to fear her as a herald of death, but rather as the harbinger of change.

“Death. Change. These two concepts are similar if not the same,” the old Seer had told him many years ago. “Do not fear this woman, for she is the mother of kings and the defender of all that will matter to you.” Sandor had been confused by this prophecy, for Valkyria did not give birth to earthly children. As if anticipating his question the Seer continued, “She will take many men to Valhalla, oh yes Odin smiles upon her as if she were his own child.” 

Looking back on it now, Sandor strained to remember every detail the Seer had told him. This English farm girl, with wild auburn hair, was the most stunning creature he could imagine. His deepest fantasy made flesh. Sandor took a moment to thank Njörun, the goddess of dreams and prophecy, and promised to sacrifice several pigs in her honor upon his return home. For she had seen it fit to show him his fate at an early age, and had endeavored to keep this faith in her prophecy as he aged.

It was unusual for a man of Sandor’s stature in society not to be married. Many of his peers had sons almost old enough to go on their first raids, and he had none. The fierce warrior had waited, a slave to a dream—holding on to the promise of nothing. Though he could not say why the goddess had deemed him worthy of this woman, or why she had waited so long to reveal his destiny to him, Sandor Son of Clegane trusted the gods had a plan for them. 

Sandor lifted an eyebrow as the farm girl raised her axe and promptly removed the head of Meryn Trant before turning to the next of his crew. Though he wanted to intervene immediately, Sandor inhaled, allowing fate to take its course. The Viking inspected her from afar, drinking in her every move. The girl’s dress hung loose on her body, with blood staining its light blue fabric. Sandor’s eye roved her form detecting a swell to her breasts and a widening of her hips at the waist. This meant she had already bled and was of an age to make him a father. His heart pounded in his chest at the very thought, for he wanted her more than any riches or gold. He was entitled to all of her as the gods had promised. Her mind, her body, her spirit, her womb. Sandor knew he was compelled to give everything of himself to her so that she would repay him in kind. 

_Gods be good,_ he grinned.

Keeping an eye on her, Sandor crept to the farmhouse she was defending. There was no man there, dead or alive. Even if there had been, the Viking was certain he would have defeated him in combat. English men were weak and certainly didn’t deserve a woman like her. Peeking through the small windows he saw no children cowering in the house. She was his and his alone--just like in his dreams.

_I will take her and make her my wife as is my duty to the gods,_ he decided. It was a duty he would gladly undertake.

As another of his crew came to claim her, crazed by the idea that she had already killed one of their own, Sandor felt his throat run dry. _This must be what fear feels like,_ he realized. Osmund Kettleblack ran at her in a fury, his need for revenge all encompassing. It was a poor choice, a rock caught his food and he fell off balance. Sandor watched in great amusement as she continued to fulfill her destiny as a Valkyria, side stepping her attacker and cleaving him in the back with her axe. 

_They have underestimated your strength. A poor mistake indeed,_ he thought, wondering if she knew he was there. If she could feel his presence as acutely as he felt hers.

The wind whipped her hair around her face, sending embers through the air. Sandor walked slowly down to the patch of grass where she was, in front of her tiny farm house. He could smell her fear, the very sight of him made her tremble. Yet she gripped her weapon tighter, unwilling to give in. 

_You’re a brave little thing,_ he thought as he approached her, finally able to observe her up close. 

Sandor liked her instantly. This wild look in her eye, her determination. “Will you take me to Valhalla as well, my little Valkyria?” He circled her, assessing the death she had given these men. “I am not afraid of dying.”

_Worthy of the gods,_ Sandor determined. Yet their end was not without its own brutality, and it aroused him. _Even as an outsider she could earn her place at Odin’s table._

“To look upon your face could sate a man for a lifetime,” he grinned while turning the sword in his hands. All her senses were focused on him, as she too sized him up for battle. This farm girl had to know she could not win, yet she squared off with him all the same. 

Sandor took a step forward, kicking up some dirt as he did so. His beautiful little bird took a step back, her arms flinching, ready to use the weapon in her hands. He stopped circling her and inspected her face, “Yet I've seen you before in my dreams. Our destinies have been woven together by the goddesses of fate.” 

There was no way she understood him, but it mattered little. Tears rolled down her cheeks, though if they were in fear or in anger Sandor could not say.

“êower lôgian hnot tacan me!,” she screamed, then repeated, “êower lôgian hnot tacan me!” She was preparing herself for battle, building the inner strength she would need to fight against unspeakable odds. It was an unbelievable turn on, one that made Sandor’s member twitch uncontrollably. 

Advancing on her again, she promptly sidestepped. “A pity these men did not know that I am the only one the gods have deemed worthy enough for you.” It was true, Sandor knew it in his bones. These men had failed where he would not, because he respected her strength. He fed from her power. It was a beautiful thing, one he would never want to tame. Thor had given her his bravery, Frigg her beauty, and Odin her budding prowess in battle. No Christian god could have given her those things. 

_She is one of my kind, whether she knows it or not._

Her eyes were glued to him, her thirst for his blood overtaking her instincts. “Come, Little Bird. Show me your strength.” he called to her, motioning with his hand. There was nothing more thrilling than this, to be on the receiving end of her power. 

Sandor wanted it, he needed it.

The farm girl ran toward him, axe raised. The Viking easily sidestepped her advance, smacking her on the backside with the flat of his sword as he would a green boy in training. He grinned, but it was short lived. His Valkyria was an agile little thing, instead of falling to the ground she had turned on a well balanced foot and swung at him again. His instincts being what they were, Sandor shifted his weight to his back foot, the head of the axe missing him by no more than an inch. She was exciting him, making his leather pants tight in the crotch. 

_I must have her,_ he thought. _She is my heart, my destiny, the mother of my children._ Yet he knew capturing her would not be an easy task. Sandor needed to be alert if he wanted to take her back to his home, and not lose some fingers or an arm in the process.

Sandor smiled, “That's it, my Heart. Show me what Odin has gifted you.” 

She came at him again, but this time he stepped toward her, adeptly catching her wrists in her hands. The axe flew from her grip, and a sense of relief washed over him knowing she was disarmed. The girl’s legs came out easily from underneath her, and Sandor fell on top of her in an attempt to pin her to the floor. The girl fought like a wild beast, screaming at the top of her lungs and throwing her hands to his face. The palms of her hands pushed against his chin, her fingers sought his eyes. It was difficult to subdue her, if not nearly impossible. Sandor pulled his face back as much as he could to escape her claws, but he wasn’t quick enough. Her left hand flew up and she dug her fingernails down the burned side of his face. The Viking felt his flesh break at the force of her scratches, her palms pushing hard on his chin in a dire attempt to get him off of her. It took all of Sandor’s self control not to pull up her skirts and take her on the grass right then and there. Make her his wife in truth in front of man and gods.

Blood and sweat made her slippery, and Sandor struggled to catch her wrists in one of his large hands. The girl’s endless amount of energy to fight him didn’t help matters at all. The mighty warrior found himself panting as he wasted his stamina trying to subdue her properly without hurting her. 

_One’s enough,_ he realized he would be unable to catch both hands at the same time. Using his other hand to open her mouth, Sandor wanted to see if she was healthy. He might even be able to determine her age by the health of her teeth. Sandor slipped his finger into her mouth, and she didn’t hesitate to bite him hard. 

“Ah, goddess of Hell!,” he cursed, pulling his finger from her mouth and examining it. She’d broken the skin there and he had to shake it a few times to get some feeling back in it. 

Sandor looked down at her, and felt his heart swell. She was perfect, she even looked like she belonged to his kind. Her anger was something to behold, it moved him. Made him feel more love in his heart than he had in a long time. The hulking Viking leaned down to steal a kiss when a sudden pain ripped through his chest. Sitting back on his heels Sandor looked where the pain was coming from to find a small paring knife buried in him all the way to the hilt. 

_She bloody stabbed me,_ he realized trying to quickly assess how bad it was. He was lucky, she could have caught his throat and made him bleed out. Yet she had missed, but only by a little. He pulled the blade from his chest and looked up, just in time to see her take off. Sandor lunged forward able to tangle his fingers up in her shoes with his long arms and trip her up. 

Then he was on top of her the minute she hit the ground, his chest to her back, laying as flat as he could so she wouldn’t hurt herself, or him. “My heart. My heart be still,” he whispered the words as lovingly in her ear as he could. The hope, of course, was that the tone of his voice would soothe her. He wanted this girl to know how much he cared for her, how he coveted her. She was more valuable to him any power or wealth could ever be.

_By the gods this little thing can fight,_ Sandor reveled in her determination. She was doing everything she could to wriggle out of his grasp, but he had her now. _You’ll just have to wear yourself out,_ and while she did so, that didn’t mean he couldn’t get to know her better. Keeping his massive weight on top of her, Sandor carefully leaned his face to the side of her own and inhaled her scent. She smelled like fresh apples, grass, and blood. A combination he had never known before but found joy in all the same. 

He kissed her on the head. “There is no shame in losing to me. None at all,” he told her, knowing she was determined to best him. 

The more she struggled the thicker and harder his cock became. It was not something the Viking could control, her bravery and nature excited him to the point of arousal. The farm girl bucked against him with such vigor that he reached his full length and girth quickly. Sandor inhaled deeply, doing his best to calm his aroused blood. To know what she felt like, even over her clothes, was something he eagerly wanted to explore. However the huge raider knew the gods were testing him. Sandor knew to take her against her will would be a mistake, and yet every part of his being needed to claim her. Every wriggle of her hips and thrust of her body rubbed deliciously against him. It was a sweet torture, one that brought him to the brink of orgasm. There was nothing Sandor wanted more than to pleasure this woman, to lick the sweat from her neck while he sheathed himself to the hilt inside of her. 

His precious little bird wasn’t giving up easily. As she continued to push against him in a vain attempt to find her freedom, Sandor allowed his mind to wander. Imagining what it would be like to have her astride his manhood, watching her breasts bounce vigorously in the air as she rode him with the same passion that she was fighting with now. He exhaled at the very thought of what her glistening pussy would look like after he devoured it. It would be the nectar of the gods, of that he had no doubt. Sweet, thick, and plentiful. Sandor grunted at the very thought of her dripping wet sex begging him to impale her. 

_She will be so hungry for me. I will make her love me no matter the cost._

The girl had stopped moving and this brought the hulking Viking back to his senses. Sandor could detect her breath, but she had stopped trying to push him off of her. He exhaled in relief and waited a few moments longer just to make sure. Gripping a bit of rope he had tied to his pants, he bound her wrists behind her back. Then she slowly turned her over on her back, being careful not to hurt her. She was filthy, covered in blood, dirt and bits of bone. And yet in that, she was even more beautiful than he could have dreamed. 

His red-haired Valkyria whimpered as his hand went to her ankles to lay them bare. He could see she feared what he would do next, and could he blame her? She was powerless now, he’d taken her options to flee or to fight away from her. _Of course she’s scared. Even grown warriors cower before me_. 

Sandor’s eyes went from her bare legs to her eyes and back again. He felt like he was handling a wild animal and trying his best not to frighten it off. She kicked at him with the little strength she had left and it made him grin. _She’ll fight to the last, she is more Northman than English of that I’m sure._

“Fêran nâ ongehrînan me,” she screamed at him. Then her eyes became even more cold than before, her tone was venum, “êower wêmend cyning sweart nîeten.” Sandor stared into her eye as she said it, and knew her words were meant to hurt him, even if he did not know what they meant. 

_She’s angry,_ he told himself, _I will take her away from everything she knows. Even if it is a better life, she does not know that._ Sandor’s lands were much larger than her own, his animals more numerous and healthier, his house perhaps three times the size of her tiny hovel. The Viking knew he could give her comforts she didn't know existed. He knew he would cherish her as his wife and companion. _The defender of our home, the mother of my children. You will be loved well._

Her voice was so beautiful, like the small birds of his homeland that heralded the spring. Sandor couldn’t fight the urge to hear it again. The Viking ran an idol finger up and down her soft supple calves, hoping she would speak in her funny language to him. When she didn’t kick Sandor smiled. 

_Her resolve will falter the further I take her from her home, and I will show her I am worthy to be her man._ It was not the ideal way to start their relationship, but nothing they couldn’t overcome.

Then he tied up her feet, leaving a finger's worth of give so as not to cut off the circulation. Sandor crawled atop her, bending over the young farm girl as he had earlier. She gasped in surprise but did not turn away. He knew his face was a ruin to look upon, but he also knew he had other qualities that made him a good provider and husband. He would only have to show her. Patience was not his strength, but deep down he knew he would have to take his time with her. Loyalty from such a woman would not be easily won.

“I’ll never hurt you. I promise,” his finger went down her cheek in admiration of her spirit. Then she promptly spat in his face. 

Wiping the spit from his eye, Sandor couldn't help but chuckle at her boldness. _Well, I can be disrespectful as well._ The massive warrior leaned over her and forced his lips upon hers. 

She tasted like honey, her surprised mouth opening for his. Sandor moaned as he eagerly played with her lips, wanting to show her he could be both gentle and sensual. His tongue went along her teeth, his lips teased her own. She would be an amazing kisser, he knew it. One who fought was such passion often felt the same passion in love making. And he intended to make love to her well and often. 

He also knew not to force himself too far into her mouth. Just as expected, he felt her move, felt her teeth open and he pulled back before she could clamp her mouth shut. At that little stunt he did laugh, hoping she’d be so keen to bite him in their sexual play. He wanted to nibble her thighs and feel her teeth clamp down on his shoulder when she orgasmed. 

_Yes, I will give her all of me,_ he decided.

Admiring her once more, Sandor hoisted her over his good shoulder flinching only slightly at the pain her knife had given him. He took her to the center of that little dump of a town, where his men were gathering anything of value they could find. She was no longer fighting, which he appreciated given the pain that was shooting through his chest. It was deep enough that he would have to get it looked at before they retreated back to their ships.

“Sandor Clegane’s Son, what the fuck is this?” Sandor turned to his good friend, Tormund Giantbane. They’d practically grown up together, closer than brothers. _Especially my brother._ Sandor sat his captive down on the ground near the town well, so her back could rest against it. 

“What do you think it is?” He shot back, not in the mood to put up with his old friend’s incessant teasing. 

“You’ve been running from the vagina your whole life, and now you take a bloody female thrall? An Englishwoman?” Tormund knelt down to give her a closer look. Her glare was enough to send the jovial red-hed laughing. 

“I always knew you’d take a ginger, the way you eye me up when you think I’m not looking,” his friend laughed at his own joke and Sandor rolled his eyes. “I can’t say I envy her though, having to service that giant prick of yours every night. She’ll be the most bull legged thrall in the village I can tell you that.” 

Sandor pushed Tormund back and knelt down to inspect the girl’s face further. It was as if he had known her his whole life. Her being had invaded his dreams since he was old enough to remember. He knew her face better than his own mother’s, maybe even better than his own. It was uncanny. 

“She won’t stay a thrall forever. I intend to make her my wife,” Sandor said, not looking at Tormund but keeping his attention focused on her. Her blue depths held a deep curiosity and no matter how hard she tried to hide it, she could not. It was a glimmer of hope for the Viking.

Tormund took his friend by the shoulder and forced him to look away from the girl “A foreigner? You want to make her a free woman?” At that he laughed hard. “The council of Jarls, which you are part of, would never allow it. Particularly your brother. They will want to divide our riches from these raids and she will undoubtedly bring a high price.” 

Sandor let that thought sink in a moment. “I don’t give a shit what the Jarls think or what they want to do. She is mine, she belongs to me.” 

“Then you should consider taking her soon and often if you really want to lay claim,” Tormund said after a thoughtful pause. “Sulling her with your seed would lower her value, particularly if the council thinks she’s already with child.”

Sandor had begun picking bits of bone and guts from the farm girl’s hair, always under her daggered glare. “Yfel tôhyht êow lêoran,” she muttered under her breath. Cocking his head to the side, the hulking raider decided to not take her comments as a death threat, but as a sign of her affection. There was no need to break her will, it was probably one of the most beautiful things about her. Yet Sandor knew he’d need to be clever if he wanted to steal her heart.

“I will not have the mother of my children resent me for taking her against her will. I refuse to poison my bed by rushing into things.” he turned to Tormund then, “I’m no longer a young buck who has to fuck everything it sees immediatly. This old bull can bide its time.”

Tormund snorted, but then became very serious, “Even then, my friend, she is a Christian.” His hand came to Sandor’s shoulder, “It seems a waste to marry such a woman and not be able to enjoy dining at the table of the gods with her in the afterlife.”

Sandor nodded in agreement though negated to share his dreams with his old friend. Those were for him and the Seer. Nobody else. Besides, it would win him no battles to attempt to convince Tormund she was an important part of his journey. A journey predetermined by the gods, of which he did not know the outcome. He didn’t have to know. It was fate, destiny, and he would not waste what the gods had given him.

“I love her, Giantsbane.” Sandor hadn’t wanted to sound like a lovesick puppy, but somehow he couldn’t help himself. 

“You do realize,” his friend began, “that there’s no space on the boat for thralls. That was your command, not mine.” Tormund knelt down so he could speak more quietly with Sandor. 

At that Sandor shot Tormund a knowing grin, “She earned her own spot on the ship and a second.” Then he nodded over to where her farm house stood, not all so far away from the center. It wasn’t difficult to see what had happened there, two corpses dressed in the Northman fashion were visible even from where they squatted. 

Tormund’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “You’re kidding me?” 

Sandor shook his head, “She defeated them in open combat. They are in Valhalla drinking and dining with our fallen friends. Seems I’ll be rowing for two on the way home.” There was a sarcastic edge to his final words, but Sandor knew his friend was still fixated on the first part of his sentence. 

Not that Sandor had cared much for the men his little Valkyria had killed. They were not loyal to him, brought along on this raiding party only to satisfy his brother’s outlandish demands. Gregor had made a poor decision to travel East with his fighters to raid again, and the younger son of Clegane was no longer interested in sharing his hard fought wealth as long as the raiding parties were split. The two had fought openly when the Council of Jarls met in early spring with the older son of Clegane openly questioning Sandor’s honesty and calling him greedy. 

What Sandor had proposed was revolutionary of course. Since before anyone could remember the hauls from the three tribes in their area were always divided equally among the council then distributed to the fighters and villagers. When everybody headed East there was no problem, all risked a similar voyage and similar hardships. Yet as they split East and West, the younger of Clegane’s Sons had argued his journey was fraught with more danger. Sandor had made it clear he would not put his men of fighting age at risk and share evenly with others who had not taken such risks upon themselves. It had not been a popular proclamation but one that had not fully fallen on deaf ears. 

_But that is something to deal with once I return,_ the Viking spat at the ground, the very thought of his brother making the hair stand up on his neck. 

Tormund snorted a moment and looked her over again with a different, more critical eye. “Love and hate are a very fine line, but she definitely hates you. I would not untie her, she’ll bloody kill you in your sleep.” Sandor couldn’t suppress a smile at the return of Tormund’s jovial tone.

“She almost succeeded,” Sandor pointed to his wound and Tormund’s eyes grew wide for a second time.

“Well fuck me sideways, maybe she is the perfect woman for you,” the ginger haired Viking quickly removed some herbs from his sachtle, chewed them a moment, then rubbed the ball of green and spit into Sandor’s wound. 

Sandor winced slightly when the herbs came into contact with his raw flesh, “I’m gonna need more than that shit. She got me pretty deep.”

His friend took a closer look. “She came close brother. Too close,“ Tormund said seriously, removing his dagger from its sheath and going to heat it up on some live flames. 

Rolling his eyes at the very idea that Giantsbane would even attempt to lecture him on close calls, Sandor pulled the water bucket up from the well. The Viking sniffed its contents, then brought some water to his lips to taste. It was neither foul, nor putrid which meant nothing had fallen in and died during the chaos of the raid. Easing himself down beside his prize, Sandor made a point to clean the wound in front of the girl without showing the pain he felt. Sandor spread the wound so the girl could see what she had done. 

“That’s a good one,” he smiled, speaking slowly to her and pointing to the wound. “Next time aim for my throat,” he pointed to his neck and saw her narrow her eyes in understanding. The Viking was taken with the need to communicate with her more. He wanted her to understand him, to share her thoughts with him, to argue and fight as lovers often do. 

There was only one way to start. 

“My name is Sandor,” he said pointing to himself. “Sandor. You?” He pointed to her but got no response. Her head was surely filled with a thousand ways to escape and kill him. “Sandor,” he pointed to himself again with a smile. “You?” Despite his efforts, he could not get through to her. All she could do was glare at him.

Out of the corner of his eye Sandor noticed Tormund, who was making his way back with a red hot blade. 

“You will get over it,” Sandor ran his finger down her face again, whispering his promise to her.

“Ready?” Tormund asked, crouching down where Sandor was. 

Sandor eyed his captive and she turned her head away. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her back to him, “You did this to me, now you’ll see it through.”

He nodded to Tormund, and his friend held the hot blade to his skin. Sandor hated the smell of burning flesh, it made him sick to his stomach, made him remember the night his older brother had tried to kill him. But he wanted to show his woman he wasn’t afraid of anything, prove to her he was worthy of her perfection. Much to his delight, she never looked away even when he gasped in pain. 

_What are you thinking, Little Bird?_ He wondered to himself to take the edge off the pain. It was bloody painful, but the experienced Raider did his best to control himself. His chest heaved and his heart beat sped up to the point that he almost couldn't take the fire of the blade. Once the blade left his skin, Sandor allowed himself to breath normally. 

“Let’s round up everything we can carry,” he told his friend after a few moments passed. “We should not be here when their men return.”

Tormund nodded and they began to call out to their brothers. Sandor felt a sense of relief wash over him. Even if their haul was but a meager one, they had met no resistance on this part of the English coastline. Save Meryn and Osmund, they had lost no men. The gods had smiled upon them on his second trip to this island, giving him more than anything gold or silver could provide. 

Sandor turned to the farm girl, still drenched in the blood of her enemies and smiled to himself. He made a promise to her and the gods, it was a promise he had never wanted to give until now. _I will take joy in you, delight in the love of you. You are to me the whispering of the tides, the seduction of summer’s heat. You will be my friend, my lover. And, should the gods and goddesses will it, we will grow wise together._ Of these things Sandor Son of Clegane was certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yfel tôhyht êow lêoran" - I hope you die
> 
> AGAIN a huge thanks to Islandida for the Swedish and reading this one over. Redbirdblackdog makes the best picsets ever! THANK YOU ALL!


	3. Inescapable / Megeigir líða

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa begins to understand that Sandor, and her fate, is inescapable in both the literal and figurative senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely chapters are getting pumped out. I hope you enjoy this one. At the end there are the translations for Sandor's words. Chapter 4 won't overlap at all with this one ;-) You can always run them through google translate after its complete if you want to gain the full sense of Sansa's predicament ;-) As always, I leave this piece of my heart in your capable hands. 
> 
> A special thanks to Islandida for reviewing the chapter and correcting my Swedish. I'm learning there are some interesting commonalities with German that I was not aware of!
> 
> Also for the picset and for the review Redbirdblackdog also gets a hug and thank you!
> 
> Please enjoy and let me know what you think. This helps make the chapters better!

# 

# Chapter 3: Inescapable / Megeigir líða

“Mitt namn är Sandor.” 

Her captor knelt down next to her, his body so close she could feel its warmth. Sansa focused her attention on the wound she had given him, uninterested in straining to understand his barbaric tongue. The slit in his chest had clotted faster than she had hoped for. Killing him would have been the best outcome in her view. To bury the knife so deep into his throat that no amount of pressure or bandaging would save him. Sadly her grand dreams of escape had been thwarted by mere inches. Even then this massive Northman carried on as if nothing had happened. 

_These men are not like normal men,_ Sansa thought, doing her best to keep her expression neutral. _Especially this man._ He was the largest of the raiders by at least a head, his size and musculature inhuman when you truly studied him. Yet here he was, half naked, hunched over, and attempting to communicate at the most basic level with her. 

“Sandor,” the hulking Viking pointed to his tattooed chest. Then to her, “Du?” 

Sansa cared little for what he was called, he was a pagen and a monster. Yet she found it interesting how similar his name sounded to her own, their language and culture being so different. Her curiosity got the better of her for a moment, as she began to study the details of the pigment in his deep grey eyes. It was an unusual color, reminding her of the beauty the moors held on a late fall day. They were focused, intelligent, and hard to look away from.

_His soul is impossible to ignore and so familiar. It spills from his eyes and right over into..._

“Sandor,” he said again, ripping her from her thoughts. The Viking spoke as if he was not sure she understood his very obvious hand signals. “Du?” She chose to glare at him instead of going along with this game. As usual his eyes held more amusement than anger. 

Dragging a long dirty finger over her tearstained cheek he whispered, “Du kommer över det.” It was as if he were promising her something. Sansa didn’t want his promises, she wanted him to leave or die -- both were fine as long as he was far away from her.

They stared at one another without blinking until his ginger haired friend came back with a red hot blade, and knelt next to Sandor. “Redo?” He seemed to ask, a mischievous grin on his pale face. Sandor’s comrade wore his long hair pulled back into a sort of dirty, matted ponytail. His leather armor had fur over the shoulders, a sword belt tying it off at the waist. Sandor sat next to her, his back against the cold stones of the well too.

When Sansa realized what was about to happen, she turned her head immediately. _I’ve seen enough pain and suffering to last a lifetime._

Two rough, calloused fingers gripped her chin, forcing her to look back at her captor. “Du gjorde detta mot mig, du får fullfölja det,” he said to her. 

There was no anger in his voice, and yet she could not say he looked forward to what was about to happen. _He must hate fire,_ Sansa thought, her eyes flickering from his chest to his face. _Who could have been big and strong enough to hold his face to the flame like that? Surely he did not do it willingly._

Her wound was but a scratch among many, nothing of note compared to the massive scarring which figured among the many defining features of his rugged appearance. Sansa’s mind went to the anguish he must have felt, and the suffering. Part of her was so angry at him that she would have given anything to have been part of the fateful moment that had defined his outward appearance. That piece of her would have delighted to see him beg for mercy. Part of her felt a pang of compassion, an understanding that whatever had happened to him had made him stronger. It was to be respected.

A quick nod from the Viking to his friend and the hot blade met his flesh. Sansa could hear it sizzle, smell it burn as the fire cleaned his wound. Streaks of pain formed on his face. Sandor’s breathing picked up. His nostrils flaring, his chest heaving. It was uncomfortable, dare she say fear instilling, to watch a man of his size and power flinch while biting his bottom lip in anguish. _I would scream bloody murder, and he…he barely changes his expression though I know it is unbearable._

Sansa didn’t know whether to be frightened or in awe. The closer she looked at him, beyond the art covering his body, she could see a landscape of violence. Injuries, near escapes. Her small contribution to this collection of battle wounds would be forever visible on his left breast. Pain was his life, suffering a mainstay. 

His eyes shifted down once the burning had ceased and she could see he had a sense of pride. _Why would he need to prove his strength to me?_ She wondered, confused by what was going on. 

Both men stood and, as Sandor and his friend spoke, Sansa’s eye appraised the Viking’s bare chest without him noticing. His shoulders and breast were tanned and well defined. They were the product of rowing their large ships and engaging in war -- this beast of a man was no simple farmer. There was not an inch of fat on his belly, if anything his skin strained against the thick, rippled muscles that protected his guts from the blade of a sword. He might as well have been cut from steel than from flesh, his tone gave the impression that no blade could touch him.

The very thought of being his slave frightened Sansa. With a squeeze from his huge hand he could wring her neck. A well positioned blow with his fist could easily break her small body. There was not a doubt in her mind that he was capable of unspeakable acts of cruelty. There were no consequences for a man like him, he could impose his will on anyone, as he was doing to her now. _How can a man of such violence be kind? He can’t._

Sansa closed her eyes and tried to even her breathing, doing what she could to stop her anxiety from reaching the surface. In the background women wept and screamed, the loss of their farms and livelihoods more than they could bear. The young maiden squeezed her eyes tight, loath to let a single tear slip from her closed lids. _There’s nothing more to be done. Father and brother will not come back before we are gone and even then, they would not be able to best this warrior. Perhaps it is better this way. That way they live and I, I…._

Her eyes were ripped open by the sound of an angry voice and the burning pain of being grabbed by the hair. Sansa screamed loudly as she watched the sky moving, an unknown man yanking her to her side and dragging her away from the well. Her hands and feet bound, there was little she could do to move.

“Du dödade mina släktingar din lilla hora,” a horrific face came into her vision, an axe blade kissed her throat. “Nu ska du betala din skuld till mig i blod.”

A scream of anger emanated from her body, with her arms and legs bound, Sansa was utterly helpless against him. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Not heading her words, the angry Viking yanked her up so she was on her knees. Tears formed in her eyes, for the pain he had already inflicted on her was something Sansa had never experienced before. Reminding herself that these barbarians respected strength, she stared back at him unflinchingly. This man was tall and well filled out, his blonde hair tied together with bits of leather string. His eyes were angry, his breath stank, and Sansa knew he would not hesitate to kill her. 

Sandor’s voice emerged from the commotion amongst the Northmen, its distinctive deep rumble already known to the young farm girl. Though his words were meaningless to her, the tone of anger he carried with him was bone chilling. Sansa’s eye caught a glimpse of the hulking warrior approaching where they were in her small town center. Her knees were on the wet grass, houses burned in the background. Before the man holding her could reply, she saw Sandor rear his hand back and punch the man straight in the face. She flinched, thinking the axe blade would go through her throat just by the very strength of the blow. Instead it fell by her side, leaving not a mark on her skin. 

Her blonde attacker was not so lucky, for her captor turned protector, dragged him a couple of paces away from her by the hair. Kneeling over his fellow raider, Sandor began to beat his face in. The blows were loud each carrying with it a sickening thud. Sansa felt herself flinching each time his fist met flesh, and she didn’t think she’d ever get used to such a sound. The younger man tried to defend himself, arms flailing around to both protect his face and reach for anything on Sandor’s body that was worth scratching and pulling. Yet, try as he might, this blonde man was incapable of doing anything else than to be an outlet for Sandor’s extreme displeasure.

When her attacker finally yielded to his bigger, stronger counterpart they spoke to one another, looking over toward her then back. Sansa could not hear the other man, just Sandor, because his voice seemed to cut through the chaos like a church bell. “Dina bröder gick emot henne och förlorade. De fick en krigares död, jag såg det själv.”

Again some indistinguishable exchange happened. As a crowd of Northmen gathered to hear what was going on, Sansa looked on from her kneeling position. The wind whipped her air around her face, covering her nose and mouth but leaving her eyes unobstructed. Sandor’s voice was loud and clear, he looked around at the motley crew of Vikings addressing them all in what seemed like a threat. “Denna flickan är min egendom,” he pointed directly at her, and all the men turned to look. “Hon tillhör mig,” he pointed to himself. “Jag kommer att döda den man som försöker utkräva hämnd på henne. Är det förstått?”

Whatever was said, there seemed to be a consensus reached amongst the men because some nodded their agreement while others snorted their consent. With that the group of raiders dispersed once more, surely looting the last houses that were left for whatever of value they could find. Sansa eyed the face of the man who had threatened her. It was hardly recognizable. One eye had already swollen shut, a testament to the power of Sandor’s blows. His nose was broken and perhaps a tooth had been knocked out, Sansa couldn’t be sure. Sandor let the man up and came to where she was. Pulling her to her feet the huge Viking inspected her for injuries and was visibly relieved to see there was not even a scratch on her. 

Without a word, he knelt down before her and untied her feet, then used that length of rope to make a leash that attached to her bound hands. “Kom,” he encouraged her, pulling Sansa like some kind of pet dog to the edge of the woods. 

There she could see where the band of raiders had observed her village. She wondered how long they had planned their attack and if they had waited for the men to leave. A flush of anger rose in her cheeks while she watched her captor throw on his tunic, then his leather armor without fear of retribution. If anything the young farm girl felt stalked and hunted. Sansa hated this man because she envied how his power and strength made him untouchable. He would never be stalked and preyed upon, nor would he be kidnapped and sold into slavery. That was when she admitted to herself there had been a thrill in defending her home that she had not expected. 

The very thought of teasing death so as to live free excited her. _I’d never felt so alive before taking a life,_ her confliction vexed her beyond what was comfortable.

So lost in her thoughts Sansa had not noticed what Sandor was doing until he showed her his large, round, wooden shield. It was painted in yellow and black with what looked like three dogs. Releasing a leather strap he placed it on her back pulling the strap across her chest from her shoulder and fixing it to the opposite hip. It was heavier than it looked, but Sansa didn’t let that on. 

“Så fager,” he said in satisfaction, as if adorning his shield was akin to wearing a fine piece of silk. 

He then pulled her toward the center of the town again, where most of the men were preparing themselves to move on. Some trailed goats behind them, others carried sacks of grain. The ginger haired Viking helped Sandor pile two huge bags of wheat over each shoulder. In all her short life Sansa had never seen a man carry so much weight before. It was the work of an ox, yet he neither strained under their load nor seemed over encumbered. If anything he had the presence of mind to notice she was staring unabashed at him, a sheepish grin crossing his lips. 

_Why does he revel in my stare when I’m just chattel to him?_ She wondered.

The rope that bound them now fastened to his belt, the whole band of raiders, including Sansa, began their long hike through the woods and over a ridge. They had not taken the normal route, in order to hide their intentions from any man or woman who would see them. This route over the ridge had only a small footpath, and was extremely steep going up. Sansa turned her head back one last time, promising she would not shed a tear for her home. Her farm was the only one not on fire and she took comfort in the fact that at least her father and brother would have something to come back to, that her bravery had not totally been in vain. 

* * *

Daylight had only just begun to wane as the motley crew of Raiders crested the top of the ridge. The view was stunning. In all her days Sansa had never seen such a beautiful sunset, nor had she seen the sea from so high up. In the coastal villages it always smelled of salt and fish guts, the water a terrible brown color. From here, there was nothing but the rush of white waves and an endless blue. 

The abandoned bay was full of Viking ships, many more than these men could fill. They were like small wooden toys in a lake from this distance, but Sansa knew there was nothing playful or carefree about them. That was when Sansa understood that these men had simply come to scout the area. Her village had been opportunistic, nothing more. She estimated it would take them half a day to reach the shore, giving her little time to escape. 

Finding a place to camp for the night, the band of Northmen settled themselves into one of the flatter places under tree cover. Sandor picked a big tree with a bit of privacy away from the group, which gave Sansa a pang of fear in her stomach. _Will he threaten me with a blade his night? Force me to perform perverted sex acts that even his men would disapprove of?_

All she had ever heard from the village priest was how close to animals pagans were. Their need for sex and violence making them more beast than human. Their “gods” wanted nothing more than suffering and blood. _Surely this man will enjoy watching me suffer for his pleasure._

Her thoughts were interrupted as she stopped walking, her thighs seizing up immediately. They had walked the better part of a day through the rough terrain of the foothills near her home. She had not eaten, save an apple and a piece of hardened meat to break her fast. The weight of her captor’s shield had only made a difficult trek more challenging as she fought to maintain Sandor’s quick pace. 

The warrior turned and unstrapped the shield from her. “Du är lika stark som du är vacker, min lilla fågel,” he told her with a smile. She glared at him, the skin around her eyes and forehead hurting because she’d done it so often that day.

Her captor arranged the sacks of grain in front of the tree as if they were pillows, and put a small piece of fabric, that might have been a kind of cape, on the forest floor. _It’s barely big enough for him to lay on, much less the two of us._

Pulling her by the leash he had fastened to her hands, Sandor led her through the trees. It was not long before she heard the running water of a river. He knew the landscape here so well it was uncanny. It made Sansa wonder how many times he had been there before. _Was it fate that made our paths cross?_ She asked herself, trying to make sense of the chaos she was caught up in.

The hill they were on sloped toward the water. Judging that she would not be able to make the slope downward without the use of her hands, the giant raider threw her over his shoulder and surfed his way down the leaves and grass of the slope. _Is this river the Tyne? It must be_ . There were few rivers in the area and this one almost certainly went to her home. _If I could only follow it back, then maybe…_

Her thoughts were cut off by Sandor who had begun to unlace her dress, “Vi behöver båda tvätta oss,” he said with a sparkle in his eyes.

“No. NO! Get your dirty hands off of ME!” She began to scream and struggle in his grasp. At this, the raider was very displeased.

He gripped her hard by the shoulders and pulled her to his body, a filthy finger pressed to her lips. “Shussh!” He said looking around to see if somebody would come to her aid. 

This revelation made her think there might be another village around, perhaps even some of the nobleman’s cavalry. Sansa yelled again, “Help me! Help!!” Her voice rang through an empty, deaf wood.

At that he pulled his tunic off and tied the fabric around her mouth in a loose gag. “ Gör som du vill, jag vill fortfarande ha dig även om du är skitig,” he kissed her forehead and Sansa glared as hard as she could. Sandor pointed to a dry patch of dirt, motioning her to sit. She did so, with a defiant air about her which made him snort in amusement. 

The Raider kept his eyes on hers, as if holding her in place with a spell. Sansa did not know what kinds of magic their kind could perform, all she knew is that it was bad. Blood magic that pleased their gods and angered her own. Sansa tried to break his spell by shifting her eyes, but found she was not able. Then he unceremoniously dropped his pants, forcing Sansa to turn her head so as not to see his nakedness. That only made him erupt in laughter. “Ni fjantiga engelska flickor. Så rädda för de obetydligaste sakerna. En dag kommer du att förstå.”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at his harassment, but she kept her eyes downturned, unwilling to give into his imposing presence. Then she heard his footsteps entering the water. Sansa turned to see his full backside, blushing all the more. It was clear he was often shirtless, the tanned skin of his back ended in a harsh line with his white, muscular bottom. 

_We’re nearly the same shade of skin, not so different._ Her eyes locked onto his sculpted bum, which jutted out from two powerful, tree trunk-like legs. The sudden pang she felt in her loins was indecent and unexpected, something she had never felt before but knew its meaning instinctively. 

Her cheeks alight, Sansa plopped herself down on the grass, removing his tunic from her mouth and waited. There was no doubt in her mind that he was a good swimmer, seafaring folk usually were. His head dipped under the water and he took to cleaning his enviable body. The Viking was not shy, taking great care to be as clean as he could be. Always throwing her glances, Sansa wasn’t sure if he was making sure she stayed in place, or hoping she was watching him. The Warrior craved her eye, that much had been obvious from the moment they met. _He even washes between his toes,_ Sansa found it amusing. 

She watched as his attention quickly turned to catching fish with his hands. _If I don’t do this now, I’ll never get the chance._

That was when she ran for it. 

Hands still bound and a length of rope dangling at her ankles, Sansa took off from the muddy bank. She knew that if she followed the river she would eventually make it home. Maybe not today, but tomorrow or the next. She adeptly maneuvered her way down its banks, trying her best to pull her skirt out of the way and not get too bogged down in the mud and the dirt. She glanced back once, _Nothing_. 

Stepping over some fallen logs and ducking under some low hanging branches she kept running. All Sansa wanted to do was put distance between herself and her captor. She felt her chest pound, still when she looked behind her she didn't see him. Eventually, her legs brought her to an impasse, where the dirt went away and only rocks and rough, white water remained. Gone was the lazy meandering river the Viking had been bathing in. Now there was only the deafening sound of angry water rushing over fallen trees and boulders. It frightened her. Sansa looked around to see if there was another way, yet the hill was far too steep for her to climb, especially with her hands still bound. She would either have to go back, or swim. 

_I can’t go back, I won’t,_ she told herself determined to see her family again.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sandor making his way down the bank. He was barefoot, boots in hand, his trousers only partially on. Their eyes met briefly and she could have sworn she saw shock and surprise in the quick moments before she jumped into the rapids. Immediately fast moving water engulfed her, dragging her down stream. The forest whirled around her, Sansa’s legs kicking as hard as she could make them to keep her head above water. It was cold, shocking her system and making her teeth chatter. White water crashed around her, while submerged tree branches pulled at her legs.

Then, without warning the long length of rope around her arms snagged on something at the bottom of the river. Sansa felt a jerk then her head went below the water. She struggled for all the good did. The young farm girl kicked her legs and pulled with her shoulders as hard as she could. Gasping breaths were replaced by water as she fumbled with her bound hands to get herself free. The rapids pounded Sansa, forcing her to gulp down more water than her body could manage. The weight of it was crushing, invading her nostrils, mouth, eyes, and ears to the point where none of her senses worked properly. Her legs kicked wildly, but found no footing. Her arms yanked against the rope that bound her arms, but found it synched tightly around her. 

_I don’t want to die,_ she realized, fear shaking her to the core. The rope burned her wrists as the water attempted to push her further downstream.

Darkness began to cloud her vision, her body capitulating to the water. Sansa’s being went limp and a calmness engulfed both her mind and her soul. It was a resignation, an acceptance of the fact that she no longer had control over what was happening to her. There was no crying, no begging or pleading, just a serene sense that this was the end.

_I’d rather be with the Northman than have such a senseless end. Oh well, it seems my fate is already written._

The next thing she knew air was being forced down her throat, filling her lungs. The air pushed the water violently out of them, straining her chest cavity. Sansa rolled over and threw up water first, then what little she had eaten to break her fast. Loud gasps came from her mouth as a large hand repositioned her head. Lips overtook her mouth, fingers pinched her nose as air was, again, forced into her body. Sansa heaved a second time with enough strength to roll her body over to throw up. 

_There’s so much water coming out of me,_ she was surprised and happy to be on the shore. The granules of dirt crunched under her finger tips, confirming that she wasn’t dreaming. 

When her eyes did open, the young farm girl saw the concerned face of her captor bent over her. When she took a big gulp of air, he exhaled in relief then rolled over on his back exhausted. Sansa could hear his breathing. His barreled chest heaved out of the corner of her eye while they lay on the rocky bank of the rushing river. Her body felt like shit, beaten around by the fast moving water, exhausted from her fight. Coldness engulfed her suddenly and she began shaking. 

Her convulsions didn’t go unnoticed. Sandor quickly sat up, scooping her in his arms so that he could hold her close to his chest for warmth. He shook a little bit too, but Sansa didn’t think it was from the temperature of the water. There was anger mixed weariness in his eyes, and a stern look on his face. 

“Nej.” he pointed a finger at her very clearly, “Gör aldrig så igen.” She was not some child to be disciplined, yet jumping into a rushing river with her hands bound had not been the brightest decision either. Sansa avoided his gaze choosing instead to bury her forehead in his thick chest. 

_Why would he go to such great lengths to keep me alive?_ She had always been told that the hearts of pagans were dark and devoid of feeling. Yet this man seemed to care a great deal for her well-being even if he had no obvious reason to. 

With that he took a huge knife from his boot and cut her restraints in a well practiced motion. Sansa’s wrists were rubbed raw and bloody in some places, it looked painful but she barely felt anything. The Viking held both her wrists softly in one of his huge, calloused hands, and inspected them in great detail. His eyes would dart to her face while he outlined her wounds with his index finger. 

“De är inte djupa, du kommer att bli bra, min lilla fågel,” there was a reassuring tone to his voice, but Sansa chose to bury her face in his chest once again instead of looking into his eyes. She did not want his compassion, nor did she want his kindness. 

_Monsters can’t be kind,_ she told herself while indulging in the heat of his strong body.

He stood with her in his arms. Sandor lowered her feet to the shore and supported her weight as Sansa tried to find her legs again. She had not even noticed how close their bodies were until he began to unlace her soaked, light wool dress to pull it over her shoulders. Her cream colored shift was plastered to her curves, leaving little to the imagination -- yet she did not fight him. If anything she felt relieved that she would not have to bear the weight of it, seeing that her body was so exhausted from the events of the day.

The Viking inspected her hair, then pulled the top of her shift over her shoulders to get a more intimate view of her skin. “Du är åtminstone ren nu,” his voice held a gentle teasing quality, as he scooped her up in his arms, throwing her ruined dress over his shoulder. 

The exhausted duo followed the river upstream, returning to the place where they had started. Never had her body been so exhausted that she couldn’t keep her head up. Sandor’s muscled shoulder provided a much needed cushion to rest her tired neck. She wanted to go home, to go back to the way things were before this man and his band of raiders had changed her life. Yet, a part of her knew the possibility of that was only getting smaller the further he took her from her home. 

Melancholy overcame the farm girl as they returned back to their bathing spot in the river. It seemed like no matter what she did or how she fought, there was no escaping her fate. This man, who spoke a different language and worshiped different gods, had altered the direction of her life in the most fundamental way possible. He had stolen her, but to what ends she could not say. Everything that she thought was so clear only became more and more blurred the longer and more intensely they spent time together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some translations as we won't replay this part again. What Sandor says in the first part of this chapter is known because it overlaps with the end of chapter 2.
> 
> Here is what is said from the time Sansa is dragged into the small town square:
> 
> Blonde Viking:  
> "Du dödade mina släktingar din lilla hora" = You killed my kinsmen you little whore.
> 
> “Nu ska du betala din skuld till mig i blod.” = Now you will pay this debt to me in blood.
> 
> Sandor:  
> “Dina bröder gick emot henne och förlorade. De fick en krigares död, jag såg det själv.” = Your brothers squared off with her and lost. They had a warrior's death, I saw it myself.
> 
> “Denna flickan är min egendom,” = That girl is my property
> 
> “Hon tillhör mig,” = She belongs to me
> 
> “Jag kommer att döda den man som försöker utkräva hämnd på henne. Är det förstått?” = I will kill any man who would seek vengeance on her. Is that clear?
> 
> “Kom,” = Come on
> 
> “Så fager,” = Beautiful
> 
> \-------  
> “Du är lika stark som du är vacker, min lilla fågel,” = You are as strong as you are beautiful, little bird
> 
> “Vi behöver båda tvätta oss,” = We both need to bathe
> 
> "Gör som du vill, jag vill fortfarande ha dig även om du är skitig,” = Have it your way, but I still want you even if you're filthy
> 
> “Ni fjantiga engelska flickor. Så rädda för de obetydligaste sakerna. En dag kommer du att förstå.” = You silly English girls. So frightened by the most ridiculous things. One day you will understand.
> 
> “Nej.” = No
> 
> “Gör aldrig så igen.” = Never do that again
> 
> “De är inte djupa, du kommer att bli bra, min lilla fågel,” = They aren't deep, you'll be fine my little bird.
> 
> “Du är åtminstone ren nu,” = Now at least you're clean


	4. Chapter 4: Heitr inn náttrinn / Warmth in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa forge the beginnings of a bond that will last a life time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies as AO3 posted an error and I uploaded the same chapter twice...in so doing I wrecked my notes :-) LOL!
> 
> A huge and special thanks to Islandida my cultural guide and support. She has helped me make sense of all these gods and goddesses -- ensuring I evoke them at the right moments. 
> 
> Also Redbirdblackdog made the most amazing picsets...like 2 are only half of the amazing things she made. Thank you...our mutual love of Rollo shows! :-)
> 
> Some points of reference for this chapter:  
> \- Hel = The goddess of death and the underworld  
> \- Tor = The Swedish spelling of Thor, I'll go for that if I can remember. God of Thunder.  
> \- Odin = The all father  
> \- Freja = The Swedish spelling of Freyja, goddess of beauty, marriage, fertility etc.   
> \- Vanadis = Another name for Freja  
> \- Tyr = The god of war

# 

#  Chapter 4: Heitr inn náttrinn / Warmth in the Night

Her lips had begun to take on that pink, kissable color Sandor knew they could be. Yet the farm girl still shivered into his chest. The Viking muttered a curse under his breath while he carried his little Valkyria through the wood. The goddess of death, Hel, had wrapped her cold, ghastly arms around the girl, and nearly snatched away all that mattered to him. He would be damned to let his beloved slip into Niflheim, determined to fight death himself if it came to it. 

There was another convulsion and Sandor knew he would need to wrap her in his cloak quickly, pulling her out of the water had only been half the battle. Getting her temperature back up would be the next. Returning from near death was a traumatic experience for the body, and he wasn’t about to watch the girl suffer, even if what she had done was stupid. The Viking snorted as he glanced down at her face. Eyes closed, lips only slightly parted. For as much as he admired her indomitable spirit, he took great displeasure in her behavior. 

An unknown feeling welled in his chest, strangling his heart which normally beat so strongly.  _ I’m afraid to lose her,  _ he realized. The vulnerability that loving somebody instilled in him was not something Sandor had anticipated. The great warrior had watched love play out on the battlefield, seen men and women sacrifice life and limb for a lover, or a child. Emotions of this kind instilled fragility in your soul, drove people to unspeakable acts of rage and kindness. If he had to be honest with himself, Sandor Son of Clegane was not sure he was strong enough to allow love to take such a hold on him. 

Trying not to dwell too much on the thought, Sandor navigated the steep slope from the river to his camp as quickly as he could. His thighs ached with every slippery step, his breath was labored. Normally he would be unphased by such things, enjoying the challenge of pushing his body to the limit. But it wasn’t every day you fought a raging river to save the woman you love. It had taken all of the Viking’s strength to go against the current, pull her weighted down body toward the surface, and cut the rope that was holding her there. He had cared so little for himself in that moment, only for her. 

Now he was just relieved they were both alive.

_ You didn’t hesitate,  _ Sandor spoke to the girl in his mind,  _ those instincts are good in battle and terrible when confronted with a rushing river.  _

Had they spoken the same language he would have admonished her for being so impulsive, raised his voice out of both fear and anger. The fact that she had attempted escape was not the issue, it had even been expected. The entire trek through the forest he had caught her looking around, doing her very best to remember the way back to her burning ruin of a village. It had been unclear to the Viking if she was flaunting the very thought that she was looking to run, or if she truly did not know how closely he observed her. But jumping into the river with a long rope trailing behind you, was certainly not a way to escape if you valued your life.  _ A miscalculation that could have killed us both. _

Finally cresting the hill, Sandor layed her sopping wet dress on a bush in the waning sun. It probably wouldn’t dry before morning, but he was more focused on getting her warm now. Had they been alone, the Viking would have stripped her completely naked, then wrapped her in his light woolen cloak. However, he weighed that idea against what he knew of her. This girl was shy, turning away at even the most innocent nudity, and he would not expose her in such a way to his men unless it was absolutely necessary. So he allowed her to keep her soaked shift on, wrapping her up as tightly as he could in his cloak. Sandor took great care to cover her legs and shoulders with the wool. In return she snuggled up to him even more then, rubbing her face in his chest such that Sandor felt his heart swell and his cock jump. 

Eyeing the fires, the warrior sought out his most trusted men and was pleased to see a few rabbits already roasting on an improvised spit. His intention had been to bathe quickly then help setup camp, but of course things hadn’t gone as planned. Approaching the fire, Sandor made no effort to explain what had taken him so long. He must have looked haggard because a few men eyed him and the girl, but only one had the balls to say anything. 

“What the fuck happened?” Tormund asked as Sander got closer to the fire, sitting on the forest floor while he cradled his red-haired little bird.

Sandor looked down at his precious package, just to make sure she was still with him. Her auburn locks were plastered to her head, and she still dripped water through his cloak. The rosiness was returning to her cheeks, which was already quite a victory. As his eyes wandered to her wrists, Tormund’s followed. 

“She’s impulsive,” Sandor said in a hushed voice, knowing his friend would fill in the rest. 

“So were you at that age,” Tormund replied, a sparkle in his eye. “She’s a fighter, my friend. You see how her body fights for warmth?”

Sandor nodded, rubbing her shoulders with one hand while she pressed her face into the nape of his neck. Tormund added with his usual smile, “You’ve gotta look at the bright side. At least now she won’t go jumping off the ship when your back is turned.” 

After considering his friend’s words a moment, Sandor could not find fault with what he said. Her will to live was strong, and even if she had made a poor choice she had proven herself resourceful and fearless. Both prized qualities in a wife as far as he was concerned. Though, as he looked around the fire, the Viking could see that not everybody thought that way. There were judging eyes on them, and Sandor knew there were those among his men expecting him to put this thrall in her place. Attempts to escape were often met with threats and beatings. Despite his size and intimidating appearance, Sandor was not the type to beat anybody -- man or woman -- without cause.

It was not uncommon where he came from for men to use their size, strength, or standing in society to beat their women and thralls. As Jarl, Sandor had judged many grievances between couples over the years. He concluded that, when a man lacked strength and confidence, abusing those weaker than him was often the outcome. Those men were more like Gregor, and Sandor had sworn long ago never to be like his brother.

That wasn’t to say Sandor had never been violent against the fairer sex. He had killed women on the battlefield, because they strived for the joys of Valhalla as much as he did. There was no shame in it. The fates of every man, woman, and child were predestined. It just seemed the gods used him in particular as a vessel to reap the fallen. Even then, Sandor had never killed without respect. 

_ Everybody expects me to be worse than you, but you marked me as different the day you pushed my face into the pyre,  _ Sandor said to himself cursing the shadow Gregor had cast on his family and the meaning of being a son of Clegane. 

Sandor turned his head back to the girl. She was cradled in his arms, her head against his right shoulder, her feet curled up near his left hip. The Viking took advantage of this moment to look at her face again. It was as if he knew every inch of it without ever having met her in the flesh. The shape of her eyes, the light freckles on her nose that came out with the sun, her sweet lips. Everything was as he had imagined it in his dreams. It made his hair stand on end to think of how close his connection with the gods must be, to have such a premenician of the future. And yet, all he knew was she was his destiny--nothing more.

Tormund handed Sandor a bit of meat on a stick eyeing the girl as if he should feed her. The hulking warrior nuzzled her head with his nose and lips, “Eat.” Her eyes fluttered open. They were a blue he had never seen before, the color of deep ice in the sea that never melted. She no longer looked at him in disgust, or with anger. Her near death experience had changed things, reset the balance between them. For that Sandor was grateful.

Gently he coaxed some food into her mouth. “That’s it, my Heart. You need your strength.” 

He felt like he was teaching a wild animal to trust him, the way she eyed him suspiciously but still took food from his fingers. A bond was being forged between them, and Sandor hoped it would be a loyalty as well. There was so much he wanted to share with her, and so much he wanted to know about her that his mind raced with the possibilities. 

_ One day I will have to explain myself to you,  _ Sandor thought amused at what that would mean.  _ Ask your forgiveness for stealing you. _

The girl chewed her food with a guarded gaze. Sandor pushed some hair out of her face.  _ “ _ You will understand in time,” he said, not caring who heard him. “And gods help me if you are still angry with what I have done by then,” Sandor smiled at his own joke, happy that she continued to take more food from him. 

“You’re spoiling that thrall, what will the others think when you take her back?” One of Sandor’s men asked. 

“Mind your own bloody business,” Sandor spat, unwilling to get into such a discussion. 

There were more politics wrapped up in that statement than he cared to deal with at the moment. Tormund had been right, this girl had a high value, one he was willing to pay -- but not necessarily his warriors. The haul from their raids was usually divided equally amongst the clans -- a decision taken long before Sandor was even born. There would be a great feast at the end of the summer, the Jarl who hosted such an event rotated between the three most powerful in their region. This year Sandor was hosting, while Gregor and Harrold Hardyng would merely bring their loot and their strongest men to divy everything up. 

It was always a tense time when you hosted two armies in your midst. There was much to celebrate, and much to be weary of. The youngest son of Clegane knew he would have to be both strong and nimble if he wanted to both maintain his wealth, power, and his claim to this woman. Going West was far more dangerous than going East, Sandor had already lost some ships and good men of fighting age. He would argue that his men deserved more for their bravery and their faith in the gods. There were those in the other clans who envied Sandor, who wanted to raid with him though their Jarl would not allow it. The Viking hoped he would be able to sway them to his side with promises of ample land, riches, and beautiful women. 

Sandor watched as the girl continued to eat, growing warmer and stronger with every bite. He was between a rock and a hard place. He would need to be cautious. For if anybody were to know the extent of his love for this woman, it would make her a target. A way to leverage him to get what they wanted be it land or power. Though, try as he might, Sandor was unable to envision what he would do, and how many he would kill to keep her safe. 

_ All of them, if I must,  _ he thought. Sandor enjoyed the feel of her in his arms, her chest rising and falling with each breath.  _ Perhaps making the pot bigger is a better way?  _ He asked himself. 

Another raid this year would not be out of the question, but they would have to agree quickly on the matter upon their return home. The winter winds would make the seas impossible to navigate, their window of opportunity would be gone within 2 cycles of the moon. Most men would want to return to their farms for the harvest, so he would have to find a way to convince them. It would not be easy, but the more other riches he came back with the better chance he could have the girl without question. There were eyes everywhere, and not all of these men were loyal to him. 

_ Perhaps it's good she will understand nothing of what I say.  _ The very thought of calling her a slave bothered him. Sandor sighed, there would be plenty of time to think on the ship home. For now he would find no answer to his most burning questions.

As the sun set Sandor’s men recounted stories of their bravery in hushed tones. There was no point in drawing more attention to themselves than necessary. It would be half a day’s trek down to the boats, where the rest of his army waited for their return. Sandor was uneasy, though he hid it from his men. Last year they met resistance, fought men who defended coastal towns on horseback winning great victories for Odin. This time, they had met no resistance and Sandor could not understand why. There was a lingering feeling that something wasn’t right, but there had also been no signs they were being followed or watched. So Sandor did what he could to quiet his instincts, take these things one step at a time.

As the moon finished its arch over the sky, Sandor knew it was time to end his watch and get some rest. The girl had long since fallen asleep in his arms, her warm breath came evenly over his right breast -- his burnt skin still sensitive from Tormund’s blade. He stood up and immediately felt the girl wake in his arms. She stirred, shifting her weight slightly but pretended to be asleep. It made Sandor grin because she did not know that the full moon light was so bright that he could see the quickening pulse in her neck. 

_ And by the gods, is it not the most beautiful neck? _

Their sleeping spot was a fair bit away from the main camp, under a beautiful oak tree with some sacks of grain to ensure they didn’t roll too far apart from one another. Sandor always enjoyed sleeping away from his men mostly because he enjoyed his peace and quiet when he could have it, but also because it was a safer location in case their camp was attacked in the night. The Viking laid the girl down on the piece of cloth he had put on the floor and watched her stretch, still pretending to be asleep. He snorted, then went some paces away to take a leak. 

The night air was cooler than before, the forest floor damp. Sandor immediately noticed her absence against his chest, and was almost certain she felt his. That was a good thing. He wanted her to know he would provide her much needed warmth in the night, for now and their long journey back home. Even in a mild climate such as here, his little bird wasn’t made for the harshness of winter in Svea rike. 

_ But she will learn,  _ there was a danger thinking of her while he fumbled with the lacing of his trousers. Sandor glared at his slightly hard length knowing he would have to stand there like an idiot until it softened. So he inhaled the fresh air, and listened to an owl hoot in the relative darkness. England was a place with rich soil and a temperate climate, but it was not as wild and beautiful as home. The Viking yearned to show his little bird the beautiful mountains, streams, and fjords that made up his world. He would show her how to ice fish, and track elk herds in silence. There were so many things she would need to learn to survive in his world, and Sandor was more than ready to share all he knew with her. 

Eventually his cock was able to relax, allowing him to empty his bladder. Sandor’s free hand steadied him on a tree, the other held his cock firmly as he pissed into the night. In some crazy way the Viking felt so relieved that he had found her, but finding her had given him so many other things to think about -- to question. Staring up at the moon Sandor wondered if it would give him an answer. It didn’t. Admitting defeat on this line of thinking for tonight, the tired warrior gave himself a good shake, laced up his trousers, and made his way back to the girl. He had not expected her to run after what had happened earlier, but still found he exhaled in relief to see she was there. She shivered a bit from the cold air and breeze, giving the strapping Viking good reason to crawl up next to her. 

_ She smells amazing. Even Valhalla could not smell as sweet as this.  _ He thought, pulling her tiny body flush with his own. Sandor’s nose burrowed deep in her red locks, her back against his chest. His heart quickened the more he felt her breathe next to him. The gods had seen it fit to tease him. There was a cruelty to allowing a mere human such a glorious creature then making them so different from one another. The Viking found himself sniffing along the outline of her ear, his whiskers bristly against the nape of her neck. The girl flinched slightly and Sandor used that motion to bring her ass flush with his hips. Each of her pretty cheeks straddled his slightly engorged length. Even through her clothes and his own, Sandor could feel the warmth between her legs. 

“I am a mortal entrusted with the protection of a goddess, don’t fault me for being human,” he whispered in her ear. It was a poor excuse for the behavior of his cock, but it was all he had to offer. Sandor cradled her with his left arm, while his right hand slid from her hip to her belly. There he splayed his hand wide across it, giving it his warmth and imagining what it would be like to feel their child moving there.

“I’ve taken so much life from this world, but you, you will create it. Give back what I have stolen,” the very thought of making her a mother made his length strain against the lacing of his pants. 

His hand, with a mind of its own, wandered over her shift, up her stomach and to her breasts. Sandor took the measure of one with a gentle pressure. They had a youthful firmness, and he delighted in how tiny yet well formed they were. The Viking rubbed his eager member against her bum and felt her stiffen. 

“Forgive me, my little Valkyria,” he whispered, knowing he’d gone too far, yet enjoying it all the same. The warmth between her legs was a seductive bate for his manhood, one he would never grow tired of. Yet for all the strength and grit she had, the girl was thin, slightly underfed if he had to guess. She was delicate by nature, her body as light as a small bird’s would be. However, the bones in her ribs were a bit too clear under her shift. The poor thing had probably not had a proper meal in some time. 

_ You’ll need good meat to restore your true strength, my Heart. Once we are home you will flourish, I promise you that. _

She turned then in what might have been half sleep, but was more likely an attempt to escape the insistent pressure of his over eager erection. The girl’s head on his chest and one leg swung over his massive thigh, she surprisingly snuggled into him. Without a little more flesh on her bones Sandor knew the harsh temperatures of his homeland would be difficult for her. It was not even cold this night, yet she sought his warmth despite how much she hated him. For their lack of words, body language and body heat would be their best communication. 

_ It’s all we have, so I must make the most of it. _

Sandor pulled the cloak over her shoulders and rubbed her with both of his hands. He wanted this. He needed this. It took all of his self control to fight the carnal urges that beat so strongly in his mortal body. His cock ached for the girl in an urgent way he was unaccustomed to. It was impossible to fall asleep with such a thick, throbbing erection. Taking a deep breath, Sandor tried to slow the racing of his heart. Never in his existence had he felt the need to create life so strongly as he did now. The need to share his seed with her, making this beautiful young woman a mother possessed the great warrior to the point of obsession. They were destined to be together, both children of Odin, Sandor knew it instinctively. But this knowledge did not help soothe his insistent body. So Sandor shut his eyes, and did his best to evoke the goddess of love, home, and war. For she would be the only one who could understand his dilemma.

_ Beloved Freja, Vanadis, I ask for your protection under your falcon wings and war-maiden’s shield. Give me the strength and the humility to love this woman as she deserves, and help her love me in return. Let us fight in battle together, make love together, and bring life into this world together. In all I have done, it has been for the glory of Tyr, Tor, and Odin. Now, I ask for your hand to build a hearth and home.  _

_ Give me a sign, I beg you. _

* * *

From the moment his feet hit the sand, Sandor Son of Clegane felt one step closer to home. He and his men had made good time in their trek down from the ridge to the shore. Along the way they had even filled up on fresh water and herbs for their return. Yet the jovial nature of his crew did not dissuade their leader from approaching the open terrain of the beach with caution. Even as they grumbled, Sandor’s men took their shields out all the same -- respecting their leader enough to humor him even if they found his caution over vigilant. 

The ridge they had been on, extended into a sheer cliff that formed the half moon bay here. With the ocean on one side and the cliff on the other, the beach was poorly positioned terrain to defend. Pulling his little bird close, Sandor held his shield at the ready as he emerged from the forest. There was a tingling in the air, one that made the hairs on the back of his neck raise.

_ Something’s not right, and yet nothing is out of place.  _

Sandor eyed the cliffs but found nothing. Archers would have a clear advantage hiding in the brush atop the shear wall, and his men would not be able to reach them. It would be like knocking a bunch of fish in a barrel with a club, and the Viking leader was not one to be preyed on. Then he squinted to the far side of the bay, with a beach that went around the upper tip of the crescent shaped bay but saw nothing of interest. Who knew what lay beyond that bend, but to Sandor it was the perfect point for a sneak attack. 

_ The sooner we get the fuck out of here the better.  _

Raising his hand in a balled up fist, Sandor made a sign to approach the ships with caution. Had he been an English military commander, and seen these foreign ships in the bay, the Viking would have surely murdered all the men aboard and used the ships as bait. Though these foreigners were not great warriors, Sandor found it folly not to assume treachery at every turn. 

Checking to see if she was behind him, Sandor pulled his sword from its sheath as they came across the closest ship. It wasn’t long before a man popped his head out from the upper deck and gave a wave. A cautious sense relief filled Sandor as he sheathed his weapon.

He clasped lower arms with the captain, though it was unusual for a Jarl to do so. Sandor was not one to be caught up in stupid traditions. All these men had fought hard, and been brave enough to come west with him. That made them all equals in his eyes. 

“That was quick,” the man said, a smile on his face. 

“There wasn’t much,” Sandor replied, eyeing the ridge. “Seen anything interesting?” 

The man, whose name Sandor did not know, was quick to pick up on his cues. “No, really really quiet.”

“Too quiet?” Sandor asked, and they both stared at one another a moment in silent agreement. “Let’s get this loaded as soon as possible then pull anchor...”

Sandor was not able to finish his sentence. He heard the farm girl’s voice pierce the sound of the waves, “Scêawian âtêon!” She pointed behind him, her eyes widened in warning.

An arrow went clean through the man Sandor was speaking to, spattering his face with blood. The Viking didn’t need to wait for another to hit, when he saw her eyes widen again he pulled his shield up, dropped to one knee and pulled the girl down with him. An arrow hit Sandor’s shield with a loud thud, its point breaking through the thick wood. There were a few more thuds, of arrows hitting shields, then a few softer sounds accompanied by screams of pain -- arrows hitting people. 

“Shield wall, backs to the water!” Sandor yelled. “Archers on your mark!”

In unison every man who could, brought up their shields up forming a barrier in front of them, others brought their shields over their heads -- forming a wall to protect them from the rain of arrows that came. Sensing the archers would need to renotch, giving him a few quick seconds, Sandor took advantage of the moment. Gripping his farm girl around the waist Sandor broke through the line of shields, then ran as quickly as he could across the expanse of the beach toward the cliff wall. She would be safe from the archers there, tucked into a fold of rock away from the heat of the battle. Sandor knew the mounted soldiers would soon come from around the bend. It was the only logical thing to happen next, and she could not be there -- though he was loath to be apart from her.

“Take this,” Sandor pulled his knife from his boot and handed it to the girl. She looked at him with surprise but took the weapon all the same. 

Sandor’s eye lingered on her a moment, checking to make sure she wouldn’t merely stab him in the back. These men, most likely from the local ruler here, would not care for her. They were not here to retrieve this beautiful woman from his grasp, they were here to drive him and his men from their lands. As Northmen, Sandor and his crew intended to fight. It was what they lived for, few things were sweeter than the heat of battle.

Noting the pause in arrows, Sandor stood, pulling his shield to the side and unsheathing his sword. “Tyr, Tyr, Tyr!” He cried evoking the god of war. “To Valhalla!” 

As if on cue, the mounted horses came from around the tip of the half moon bay. His raiders began to beat their shields and draw their weapons. His archers did what they could to fire at those on the ridge, providing cover for the rest of them on the beach. The sound of bodies dropping from high, was music to Sandor’s ears. 

_ We have a chance,  _ he smiled _ and  _ a calm overtook him.

The surprise attack had by no means broken their spirit. If anything it made his men hunger for blood. Sandor knew their fates were already written, that the gods had charted each of their lives to bring them to this day. He did not fear death for Valhalla awaited any man or woman strong enough to meet their enemies in combat. 

Without a second thought, Sandor ran toward the hoard of well armored English soldiers, leading the charge of his band of Vikings, who poured out from the safety of their ships to join the battle. It was these moments he truly craved, and Sandor knew instantly this was what the gods had made him for. It was the way his blade slipped across a man’s flesh, the physicality with which he used his shield to both block and throw his opponent off balance that made him good in battle. There were times, much like now, where his rage over took him and he moved into a trance like state. Sandor did not know which god entered his body and controlled his being-- be it Odin, Tor, or Tyr -- only that no blade or arrow point could touch him.

Sandor ripped his way through the line of English soldiers, his sword and his armor bathed in the blood of his enemies. The cold metallic clang of steel, and the cries of men filled the air. They drowned out everything else, heightened the senses Sandor needed to excel in a fight. He blocked the swords of the English men with ease, smashing his shield against their faces and driving the blade of his weapon through the weakest points of their armor. Limbs flew, bodies tore in half under his blade.

A roar erupted from his throat, his body tingled with his connection to the gods. A mounted rider zeroed in on Sandor, his bay colored mare charging him. Waiting until the last moment, Sandor dropped to one knee shield up, sword taking out the horse’s leg. Both man and animal flew, hitting the sand in a sickening thud. Neither one of them would get up from that, 

Finding it cumbersome the Viking threw his shield to the side in favor of a second sword. Like an extension of his arms, Sandor blocked, slashed, and hacked through any man that came close to him. Using the strength of his torso to deadly effect. With two blades at his disposal, he could both block and cut quickly, pushing his blade through the center of his enemies and twisting it to make sure they would not get up to fight again. 

As the Viking warrior ran out of enemies, he turned to look behind him. Sandor was alone having pushed through the line of Englishmen quickly. Others would join him, then they would squeeze the line from both sides. Nothing felt so sweet than battling in the name of the gods, nothing except having the honor of protecting his little Valkyria. Peering through the fog of screaming men, flying sand, and raw emotion the Viking smiled, because all he wanted was to make it back to her arms. His eyes turned to where he had deposited her. The girl’s red hair flew in the wind as she watched the battle, tucked away as safely as she could be in the folds of the rock cliff. 

Before now Sandor had always felt that killing for the honor of Tyr and Odin was the sweetest thing there was. Now, he understood how the touch and affection of a woman could transcend that. A wall of Englishmen stood between him and his woman, fanning his urge to reunite with her all the more. Feeling the power of the gods, Sandor inhaled, regripped his swords and ran toward his enemy, a monstrous war cry on his lips. His heart beat to the point that it drowned out the sounds of heavy fighting around him. Steel on steel, wails of agony, all fell on deaf ears as Sandor decimated the line of soldiers on his own. Adept at double handed combat, the juggernaut of a Viking split through the men not caring which limbs he severed or how they met their deaths. No man could stop him.

Sandor felt no pain, or fatigue. He was nourished only by blood and fear. His enemies scattered, giving him a wide breadth and his companions the opportunity to pick them off. His was a well practiced dance of sword and body, one the Viking was in complete control of. Muscles flexed under leather armor, holding his arms steady and pulling power through each of his blows. He would lose all track of time and space in moments like this. Give himself completely to what he was designed to do. 

_ And by the gods it feels good. _

Inhaling, Sandor blinked a moment taking the measure of where he was. His eyes searched the beach of death, assessing what he had left behind. They had won, that much was clear given the number of fallen in the sand. The monstrous Viking smiled, the warmth of his enemy’s blood permeating his skin. Tor and Odin had smiled upon them, giving him and his men glory--stories worthy to take home and share around a proper meal.

Sandor went to the girl, not at all surprised she had stuck his knife through an English soldier who had tried to make off with her. This time she had met her mark, hitting him in that soft part of his throat where his armor didn’t exist. Exactly where Sandor had shown her the day before. Pride welled up in his chest. She would prove formidable with training, and he looked forward to the day they could share this together. 

The girl stared at him with an expression he did not understand. It was not fear, and certainly not anger. She was evaluating him, maybe even in awe of him the way her wide blue eyes searched his person. Sandor was covered in blood and sweat, his long hair matted to his neck. There was a curiosity to the way she cocked her head to the side, a struggle in her being as she tried to understand how he could be both gentle and a warrior. 

_ She is not used to war,  _ he reminded himself.  _ She cannot understand what it means for a man to defend what matters to him. But she will see.  _

“You are confused where you belong,” Sandor said while the girl held the knife out to him.

He let the small piece of steel roll off her finger tips and land in the sand with an unceremonious thud. Sandor cared little whether he got his weapon back, she was the only thing that mattered. Planting both of his swords in the sand, the huge Viking knelt so he could properly look into her eyes. His palm brushed against her cheek, the tips of his fingers grazing the back of her neck. Before she had always cut him off with a glare or the turn of her head. Now, her eyes drilled into his for guidance and understanding. It made Sandor’s skin prick with excitement.

“You hear them don’t you? The call of our gods,” Sandor sought the answer in her cerulean depths.

The girl inhaled deeply, trying for the first time since they met to understand his words and their meaning. “The closer we are to home, the stronger they will call to you,” Sandor brought both of his hands to her face. “That thump in your chest you get while in battle. That is Tor beating his hammer.” 

His hands slid down to her shoulders, “That whisper in your ear that tells you when to strike and when to be on guard, that is Odin, the all father. He is your destiny, as you are mine.”

Sandor’s eye wandered down her arms. That was when he noticed her hand, the knife had probably slipped as she defended herself, leaving a superficial cut across her palm. Picking up his knife from the beach, Sandor closed his right hand around its blade, then pulled it over his flesh. Wrapping their wounds together, Sandor pressed it so their blood would mix. 

“There,” he said. “Now we will always carry the other when in battle. We will never be alone again, my Heart.” 

Her gaze flickered to their hands, and Sandor felt her squeeze his. “Yfel weorðan, Sansa.” She put his blood stained hand on her chest. Then she put her tiny injured hand on his chest, “êow wuldor, Sandor.”

_ A sign from the gods,  _ Sandor smiled then kissed the back of her hand. 

“Sansa,” he repeated, seeing her smile for the first time since he had stolen her. She had a beautiful smile, one he had seen many times before in his dreams. One he had prayed to feel against his neck while they made love. One he had been waiting for his entire life. 

_ It is even more beautiful than I could have imagined to see it in the flesh.  _

Wrapping his arm under her bum, Sandor lifted the girl so he could carry her to the boat. The sand shifted under his feet, causing his legs to work more than normal to bring her across the beach. There was death everywhere, but it seemed to bother her little. Sansa steadied herself by using his shoulder, her delicate hand warm even through his tunic. Sandor’s eye went to Tormund, who had taken it upon himself to relieve the dead Englishmen of their weapons. The Viking did not know how it was possible, but their steel was the best he had ever seen. Stronger and able to sharpen to a much finer point. It was good to bring these home, Sandor shot his friend an appreciative glance while stepping over some corpses. 

_ The crows shall feast well,  _ he observed, confirming they had not left one English soldier alive.

Hoisting her over his head to waiting arms, Sandor felt a sense of calm that his most precious cargo had made it safely to his ship. The man who took her eyed Sandor in disbelief for a moment before pulling Sansa over the side of the ship. Reassured that no harm would come to her, Sandor waded waist deep into the bay, then threw himself into the cold oceanic water. He wanted to cleanse the blood from his body, taste the salt of the sea on his lips again. Ripping off his leather armor and tunic, Sandor dove into the water of the shallow bay once more. He was not the only one, many wanted to celebrate their victory, then lay their fallen to rest. Even if they merely said a few words and took some possessions home to their families, it would be enough to ensure the Valkyries took them to Valhalla.

Sandor took a moment to look back and found Sansa staring at him from the bow of his ship. For as much as he regretted losing some good men, the gods had given him a chance to show this woman his true strength as a man and protector. Odin had smiled upon him, conspired with Freja so that this beautiful creature might find him worthy as a husband, and father to her unborn children. Her eyes searched his body, wandered over his chest and shoulders. The Viking kept a quiet smile for himself, because he knew he had claimed her. The girl did not yet understand what had happened, but found it hard to fight the changes that were happening inside her. She was his and he was hers, a pair only death could bring asunder.

_ Hail Odin, the all father, the wise wanderer and tamer of wolves. Impart on me your strength and determination. As you sacrificed an eye to gain wisdom, so shall I sacrifice a life without fear so that I may bring this woman into my heart. My mind yearns for her wisdom, my body demands her touch, my soul aches to be next to her in battle. Give me the strength, oh father, I never knew I needed, and the courage I still lack, to give Sansa the life she deserves.  _

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quick translations:
> 
> \- Scêawian âtêon = Look Out!  
> \- Yfel weorðan, Sansa = My name is Sansa  
> \- êow wuldor, Sandor = You are Sandor


	5. Chapter 5: Dreams of Valhalla / Hnappian un−l¯æd Valhalla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa considers her dreams while bring brought to a new land, and in the middle of a sensitive political situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! Another chapter is ready and I can't thank Islandida enough for helping me. She has a family and every moment she spends correcting my poor Swedish is time away from them. So THANK YOU!!
> 
> Also, Redbirdblackdog has done it again, making amazing picsets for this fic which really capture its essence. Thank you so much!
> 
> A note of warning, there's quite a bit of Swedish in this one. The first part of the story, you will find the translations below, the last part of the story is the first part of Chapter 6. So I won't translate it, you will get the full Sandor, Tormund, Brienne conversations later :-)
> 
> Points for reference:  
> \- Ravens are a big deal in Norse legend, they work for Odin.  
> \- A Holmgang is a kind of ritual duel in which one person challenges the other, and they must accept this challenge. You could be challenged for land, possessions etc. Historians say the early ones were to the death, the later ones more "ritual". But they are honored and legal ;-)
> 
> Translations:  
> "“Så ja, lila fågel. Släpp ut allt,” - "There there, little bird. Let it all out.
> 
> "Jag önskar att du kunde berätta om dina drömmar, mitt hjärta. Ju närmare vi kommer vårt hem, desto tydligare blir de," - "I wish you could tell me your dreams, my Heart. The closer we get to home, the more vivid they become"
> 
> "Alltid kall, min lilla fågel. Oroa dig inte, jag kommer att skydda dig från allt, även kyla," -- Always freezing, my little bird. Don’t worry I will protect you from everything, even the cold
> 
> "Du är frisk och fruktsam, mitt hjärta. Känn inte skam, det kommer snart att passera" - You are healthy and fertile, my heart. Don't be ashamed. It will pass soon
> 
> "En dag kommer jag att lindra din smärta inifrån,” there was an affection in his voice as his lips ran across her jaw line. “Du kommer att känna mycket glädje i det, det lovar jag" -- One day I will sooth your pain from the inside. You will find much joy in it, I promise
> 
> "Jag vill ta dig till min säng" -- I want to take you to my bed
> 
> "Där ska vi skapa våra barn i kärlek och passion, det kan jag lova dig" -- There we will conceive our children in love and passion, that I can promise you.
> 
> "Hur kan du detta ord, mitt hjärta?" -- How do you know this word, my heart?
> 
> "Om vi har tur möter vi varandra där, i Valhalla" -- If we are lucky we will meet each other there, in Valhalla.
> 
> "Titta, Sansa. Land" -- Look, Sansa. Land
> 
> "Där i horisonten. Vi är nästan hemma" -- There on the horizon.
> 
> "Du gjorde det igen, din jävel!" -- You did it again you bastard!
> 
> "Vi lever och får se fler räder, det är säkert. På detta hav och med dessa vindar är vi hemma efter kvällen fallit" -- We’ll live to see another raid, that’s for sure. On this sea and these winds, we’ll be home after nightfall
> 
> "Tor ler mot oss" -- Thor smiles on us.

# 

#  Chapter 5: Dreams of Valhalla / Hnappian un−l¯æd Valhalla

_ A cold wind threw around Sansa’s heavy fur cloak as if it were a fine piece of silk. The heavy skins fluttered around her, a slave to the arctic gales. Her cheeks were kissed red by its strength, the air making her fingers numb as they curled around the handle of her battle axe. The weapon dripped with the blood of her enemies, the weight of it oppressive in her tired arms. Exhaustion had set in, her labored breath visible in the icy air. Death surrounded Sansa, bodies upon bodies with no end in sight. The snow covered field would have been a beautiful one, flanked by mountains with huge trees. But now it was sullied. Blood had been shed frivolously on its virgin white powder. What was done here was an abomination, an act worthy of revenge. _

_ Footsteps could be heard behind her, and Sansa turned her head. _

_ “Sandor?” She cried into the murky greyness, “Sandor, where are you?”  _

_ Her words were not her own, uttered in a language she did not know - yet she understood them. Her voice was dampened, as if she yelled underwater. Frustration filled her for no matter how loud Sansa screamed, no matter what she did, she could not make the sound of her voice carry through the field. It was as if death ate it up, sucked her words in before they left her lips. It angered her, made her battered body shake in anger. Dropping to her knees Sansa cried out in rage, tears streaming down her face. _

_ “They will go to Valhalla,” a voice in her head told her. “They will spend their days fighting, drinking, and being merry with the gods.” _

_ Sansa jumped to her feet and turned around frantically. The origin of the voice still eluding her.  _

_ “Sandor?” It was not his voice which spoke to her, yet she hoped upon hope it was him anyway. Though it seemed unlikely given the sheer amount of death here. _

_ Looking around her, Sansa did what she could to remember every face. ‘It is up to the living to avenge the dead,’ she told herself, repeating it like a montra. She did not want to forget, not this time.  _

_ It was odd for her to have such strong feelings of vengeance. She had grown up a farmer, death on this scale was not known to her. Yet, in her heart of hearts, she was ready to fight for survival and avenge the fallen. It was her duty, her calling. Something that burned deep inside of her so hot, she could not feel the cold winter wind. _

_ “Come, girl. Let me look at you,” the voice ordered her. _

_ There was a flutter and it drew Sansa’s eye. ‘The raven on a fence post,’ she knew it was the culprit, the origin of the voice. Yet it made no sense at all. The huge, black bird cackled the more she drew near. There was something strange about this bird. Something different.  _

_ “Look at me, my daughter,” it spoke to her in a man’s voice. A voice she did not know.  _

_ The farm girl mustered all her bravery and neared the raven. When it turned its face Sansa found it was missing an eye; she took a step back, screamed, then everything went black.  _

Gasping Sansa woke with a fright. She had only a little time to wipe the sweat from her brow before the need to throw up overtook her. Quickly pulling herself to the edge of the ship, Sansa hurled her stomach contents over the side, cursing the sea as she did so. The motion of the ship continued to make her ill, though they had already been several days at sea. Before she heaved again, a strong, familiar hand came to her waist, another held back her hair. 

“ Så ja, lila fågel. Släpp ut allt, ” Sandor’s deep voice emerged from the darkness, and a residual relief overtook her. 

Sansa looked around to make sure there was no field. 

There wasn’t. 

She blinked to make sure everybody was still alive. 

They were. 

Whether she liked it or not, they were on his ship, sailing across a dark sea at night. It was not the most comforting place, the farm girl preferred hard, sturdy land to the unforgiving seas.  _ But better than my dreams,  _ she relaxed, hugging the side of the ship and leaning her head over the edge. 

This was not the first dream of its kind she had endured while on the Viking ship. It was one of many similar visions. All started more or less the same. Sansa was in a land she did not know, speaking a language she could not speak. The first time she had seen the field of bodies, she ran, afraid of death itself. Something inside her had been unwilling to look into the cold, glazed over eyes of the dead around her. It had taken several nights, some of them pressed against Sandor’s reassuring chest before she had overcome her fear. The farm girl had forced herself to look at the face of every corpse, knew that to remember them and to fight for them was the most important thing. After that, she had spent many of her dreams trying to find Sandor. Yet every time she felt she was closer to him, the one-eyed raven stopped her. She could not look in his face, but did not understand why he frightened her.

The hand that rubbed her back was warm, but it gave her little comfort other than snapping her back to reality. Sansa wretched again, and that seemed to finally fulfill her body’s urge to get rid of everything in it. Once finished she stumbled back to the small place Sandor had carved out for them on the deck to sleep, rejecting his offer to help her walk. If anything, she wanted to show him that she didn’t need him, that she could make it on her own. In truth she would be helpless at sea, not knowing the first thing about sailing, fishing, and navigation. 

Managing a couple of very confident steps, Sansa dropped to her knees on the huge fur cloak he’d laid out for them. The dark brown fur was coarse under her fingers, and the farm girl wondered if it was from a giant bear. Black bears were not uncommon where she came from, but none of them were this big. It’s sheer size was as monstrous as the man who had stolen her, the paws bigger than her face. 

_ Surely he killed this beast himself, for no other man here has such a cloak.  _ It would not have surprised her if that was the case, after watching him in battle in the bay. 

A smile spread unbid across her face at the thought of him with his swords on the beach. At that moment she had realized how easy the sack of her village had been for them. Understood the amusement that had danced in his eyes when she’d ran at him with an axe. All child’s play given what Sandor and his band of Northmen were capable of. 

The clash of Viking and the nobleman’s soldiers in the bay had been terrifying. Arrows flew every which way, swords and axes had met flesh with anger and hatred. Sansa would never forget the screams of man and beast drowning out the violent crashing waves while blood stained the sand. It had been impossible to take it all in with two eyes, much less know what to do. Her legs had been frozen in place, her mouth agape with the sheer savagery of a war she knew little about.

It had been impossible to lose sight of Sandor in the chaos. His sheer size meant that he dwarfed every man on the battlefield, the ferocity with which he fought sent men running if they valued their lives. The Viking left not one soldier alive, his blades moving in well practiced motions across his opponents. It was as if he commanded his weapons with nothing more than a thought, because there was a natural grace which came with such prowess in battle. One she had never witnessed until now. There was no hope fighting a man like this, and yet, unlike many men on that beach, she had stood her ground against the Viking warrior. 

A retreating soldier had surprised her, running to her in his bid to save his own meaningless life. The overweight, red faced man had tried to make off with her, a lecherous grin on his lips and wine on his breath. Aside from being pock marked and disgusting he was also dishonorable, leaving his comrades behind to save his own skin. He was a despicable wretch of a man, and Sansa was done with having men make off with her.

“No, leave me alone,” she yelled, realizing as the words came out of her mouth she’d thrown her lot in with the Northman. 

The soldier had merely laughed, his teeth brown, his breath atrocious. Something called inside of her then, something that was impossible to describe. It was a voice, one of both comfort and great wisdom. “ _ Let him get closer, child. Then strike for the throat, bury your weapon to the hilt _ .” 

_ The same voice that speaks in my dreams,  _ she realized now, the salty ocean wind hitting her face. It was not the voice of God, for he would never wish her to do violence upon anybody.  _ Was it his god who spoke to me? The one that still speaks to me?  _

Sansa shifted her gaze to the Northman, taking his time to inhale the cold air and inspect the waters from the side of the ship. He’d unbraided his hair, allowing the unruly brown mane to be free in the wind. Her eye wandered over his body as it often did, amazed that he never wore more than a simple tunic and leather trousers. It was so cold these nights, gliding across the sea, that she could see her breath in the air.  _ Winter in late summer, how can that be? _

The Northmen had many gods, Sansa knew that for a fact. What they stood for and how they were worshiped was unclear to the English girl. Priests told tales of blood thirsty demons, gods who demanded blood rites as well as sacrifice. Human, animal -- all were the same to these people. Sansa had heard tales of how men lay with men, women with women, and sometimes all together. A real sodom and gomorrah -- one that spat in the face of her christian values. In a town meeting men were told to slit the throats of their daughters, lest they fall prey to the animalistic carnal needs of the Northmen. Yet, the longer Sansa spent time on this ship, the more some of these words from the priest fell apart. 

This man, the one who had stolen her, was a contradiction. His bulging muscles, and disfigured face told the tale of a monster. A fierce Viking come to rape, pillage, and kill. While there was no doubt in her mind he had done all of those things, she could not understand why he was treating her as he did. Ensuring she had enough food, holding her hair back as she watched it all come up again over the side of the ship, giving her his tunic in the night to keep her head warm. A blood thirsty pagan didn’t do those things.  _ But he does, and his men eye him suspiciously as he does so. _

The moon had long since set and Sansa knew there was no returning to sleep. Looking around at the crew, many were curled up on small bits of cloth catching what little slumber they could. Though day and night came with the sun and the moon as one would expect, the sea had its own unpredictable rhythm. One that required special attention and experience. Luckily there was a good wind filling the sails, the oars were up, and the man on the rudder didn’t seem to be having difficulty keeping them on course. But where they were going she could not say. Not having seen land for days, Sansa admitted she wondered if she ever would set foot on dirt and grass again.

Sandor handed her a skin of water, and sat down beside her. Sansa eyed him a moment then drank eagerly. He rarely slept, his sense of responsibility for his ships, his crews, and their safety was obvious. Even if Sansa did not understand the things they spoke about, it was not hard to see he was a well respected leader. 

Sansa handed the skin back to him. “ Jag önskar att du kunde berätta om dina drömmar, mitt hjärta. Ju närmare vi kommer vårt hem, desto tydligare blir de,” he whispered his words, the depth of his voice cutting through the dark night.

Leaning back on the side of the ship, the farm girl did her best to ignore him. She turned her head away and looked out at the endless darkness around them. Only the snoring of Vikings and the creaking of the boat filled the otherwise quiet night. Her actions did little to discourage Sandor from interacting with her. Their language barrier was no deterrent for him in the least, if anything he seemed to find it amusing. The mighty warrior scooped her up unbid and put her on his lap. 

The further they were from home, the colder it had become -- so his warmth was not unappreciated. In truth Sansa would have not survived long on this journey without it. She was not made of the same stuff these people were, and she was certainly not hardened to this kind of cold the sea brought with it. Yet she warred with herself. The village priest had always told her it was immoral to lay with a man who was not her husband, and that urges of any kind for a non Christian were not what God wanted for her. Sansa found it hard to keep these things straight in her head the further north they went. Her very survival depended on a physical closeness with a man she could not speak to, and with that came desires she had never felt, needs she had never known. The Viking befuddled her in so many ways. 

Sandor removed his tunic, as he often did, and wrapped the warmed bit of cloth around her head and ears. Then he pressed her against his thick barreled chest, its tightly cropped hair tickling her neck. His natural scent was heady, masculine but not unpleasant. A thin layer of salt covered his body, left over from the crashing waves. She fit so well with her head under his chin and her back against his body, it was as if they were made for each other. A sigh escaped Sansa’s lips at the thought.

Once they were in place, he grabbed the far ends of his bear skin and wrapped both of them up in it. Sansa brought her knees up and he cocooned them in the fur.  _ He surely does not need such warmth,  _ Sansa thought, shifting to the side so her hands could find a warm spot between them. 

The Viking was always warm to the touch, even the tips of his fingers were hot. She knew this because he would often clasp her tiny feet in one of his massive palms and rub them warm. Much like he was doing now, “ Alltid kall, min lilla fågel. Oroa dig inte, jag kommer att skydda dig från allt, även kyla .” 

When neither one of them could sleep, much like tonight, he would teach her some words in his language. Much to his delight, she had learned a couple of simple but useful words and phrases. Boat was  båt , beautiful was  vacker , man was the same, woman was  kvinna , heart was  hjärta and sword was svärd . She would do the same with him. Sansa found his accent amusing and she wasn’t sure if her giggles at his pronunciation confused him or made him upset. But he never admonished her, simply harped on her own pronunciation of his language as a way to get back at her. Tonight however, both of them were too exhausted to exchange even the simplest of words. 

His chin atop her head, Sansa felt his hand reach under her skirt and brush her upper thigh with his finger tips. Days before she had screamed out, batted his hand away to the chuckling of his men. Now she knew better, understood what he was doing even if she thought it strange behavior for a man. The sea seemed ready to take everything from her body, making her moon blood come earlier than normal. The Viking had noticed immediately, much to her embarrassment and shame. Yet, while her brother and father had no idea how to handle such things, literally keeping her in the house until it stopped, Sandor had known exactly what to do. 

_ These Northmen must be close to their women,  _ she thought. 

Removing his hand from her skirts, he rubbed his fingers together to test the consistency of her blood. “ Du är frisk och fruktsam, mitt hjärta. Känn inte skam, det kommer snart att passera,” he reached his hand out of their warm cocoon. Maneuvering against his bulky inflexible shoulder, Sandor was able to get his hand behind his back. When it came back around to her field of vision again it clasped the cleanest rag she could imagine on this ship. Quickly he brought it under the furs and handed it to her, as if he intended to keep her menstruation as secret from everybody else as she did. 

The reason he had stolen her was unmistakable. This man wanted a bed slave, and maybe more. Sansa had considered all of the possibilities in her head while she brought the rag under her skirts. Surely he already had a wife. Sansa had studied his face many times on this journey and he was not a green boy, not by far. The sun had imprinted wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead. But he was not old. His long hair was still dark, and his teeth were in good shape from what she could see. Though surely a man of his age had children of eight or ten years.  _ Younger than me but not too much either. _

_ Is he to keep me alongside his own wife? Help in the house and then use me at night?  _ It was a fear she had, and yet there was also doubt.  _ He calls me his heart, and he is genuinely affectionate to me. Can I trust my instincts with a man who is so different from anything I know?  _ These thoughts plagued Sansa the close they got to his home. She didn’t know what to think, much less what to do.

Sansa cleaned her thighs, brought the rag between her legs and left it there as they sat in the darkness. Her cramps were particularly bad today, which had not helped in her recovery from her sea sickness. Sandor’s hand splayed over her belly, spreading warmth there. He massaged it as he often did and she found it soothed her pain. 

“En dag kommer jag att lindra din smärta inifrån,” there was an affection in his voice as his lips ran across her jaw line. “Du kommer att känna mycket glädje i det, det lovar jag,” he nuzzled the side of her head and brought her hips tight against his own. 

There was something in his deep voice when he spoke that way to her that made Sansa’s insides melt. The rumble in his chest, the strong beat of his heart against her back, his hand across her belly, all intimacies that made Sansa’s body feel things. Her nipples would strain against the itchy fabric of her shift, making them more sensitive. Her loins would pang with a desire she knew was sexual and forbidden.

“Jag vill ta dig till min säng,” his baritone voice whispered in her ear, his beard teasing her cheek. It sent shivers up her spine, and created a warmness between her legs. “Där ska vi skapa våra barn i kärlek och passion, det kan jag lova dig.”

A tattooed hand emerged from the warmth of the furs, moving her face toward his and forcing her into a kiss. His lips were far from unpleasant, always warm and energetic. Sansa fought her desire to return his affections, not that it deterred him.  _ Even if it is my destiny, I must show him I don’t want to be the wife of a godless pagan.  _ Though she had to admit to herself that her resolve was slowly fading.

Her thoughts turned to the death she saw in her dreams. By now she understood it was the raven that spoke to her, this one eyed beast. She did not know this word,  _ Valhalla is it like heaven? _

“Valhalla,” she whispered in the dark, curious to see how he would answer. 

The warrior turned her in his arms so he could cradle her and look at her face. He inspected it with an intelligence that made her want to know what he was thinking. Made her want to know him better than their two different tongues allowed. “Hur kan du detta ord, mitt hjärta?” 

They stared at one another a moment. “Om vi har tur möter vi varandra där, i Valhalla.”

She did not know what he said, only that he spoke fondly of this place that seemed to welcome death. Something inside her could not find peace with this as he did. This place, spoken of only in her dreams, frightened her, but also intrigued her. No matter what, she was always searching for Sandor, afraid he was dead. They had been separated, and her entire soul called out to him. This feeling inside her was festering, her attachment to him growing stronger the further from her home they wandered.

_ This dream implies a bond, something indestructible and yet... _ Sansa looked down at her hand that had been hurt in the battle some days before. It was healing well. She ran her finger over the wound. They had exchanged blood that day on the beach. He had given something of himself to her, and she had given him something of her own. He had infected her with questions and emotions she could not fathom.

Sansa exhaled and snuggled deeper into Sandor’s warm arms. His long hair flooded over his shoulders, happy to be freed from the braids he had worn whilst on land. The shaved side of his head, where he was also disfigured, held the depiction of a ferocious beast. With sharp teeth, and a mouth opened in what was certainly a yell or a growl -- it struck fear in anybody unaccustomed to such things. Similar in form to the mastheads many of the ships carried this tattoo suited him. It made him special.  _ He is special, but I just don’t know how. _

The gentle colors of dawn began to break on the horizon, and Sansa felt sleep might finally be taking hold. But then she felt his body stiffen, his chin lift from her head. Groggy Sansa looked up, to see him peering off into the distance. A satisfied grunt came from his throat. Sandor stood, taking her with him and jolting her body into alertness. Her hand clasped in his, Sandor maneuvered them to the bow of the ship. The massive Viking peered long and hard into the distance, then brought her in front of him, his hand on her shoulder making her look in the right direction. 

“Titta, Sansa. Land,” he pointed into the distance, and Sansa found herself squinting. She saw nothing.

_ Land? Does that really mean land?  _ She wondered, looking again into the dawn.

“Där i horisonten. Vi är nästan hemma.” She could see the happiness in his face, the joy of having brought his men and ships back from a long sea journey. Squinting again, Sansa saw it as well. A dark mass emerged from the seemingly endless sea of the horizon. It was such a tiny speck, so far away from where they were and yet, a promise of what was to come.

“Land!” He belted loud enough so that not only his men, but some on the closer ships could also hear. With that Sansa heard the horns blast across the sea, alerting all the ships in his sizable flotilla. 

The mood instantly changed. What had been a rather muted collection of sunburned, lethargic men going through the motions of keeping themselves afloat, suddenly became a loud joyous affair. Men clasped hands, hugged, and began to sing songs of home. 

The ginger friend of Sandor jumped on him from behind, nearly making them both tumble into the sea. Had it not been the dark haired Viking’s huge stature, they certainly would have. The two quickly embraced, Sandor lifting his friend’s feet from the ground. 

“Du gjorde det igen, din jävel! The ginger, she knew now as Tormund, exclaimed. They were all grins, just as relieved as she was that they would be soon back on solid ground. Something about that comforted her.

“Vi lever och får se fler räder, det är säkert. På detta hav och med dessa vindar är vi hemma efter kvällen fallit.” Sandor smiled, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Tor ler mot oss.”

  
  


Both Sandor and Tormund made their way through the ship, clasping hands and celebrating with their brethren. Sansa stayed at the bow, watching the sky turn pink in front of her - unable to rip her eyes from the tiny speck of land in front of them. 

She would be entering his world now.

A world she knew little about -- only that they worshiped false gods and engaged in blood rites. Sansa could never say she’d been deeply religious, but faith in God had allowed her to weather hard times. Famine and the death of her mother just to name a few. God had always provided and looked out for her and her family, even if there had been tough times. Now she could not say what was going on and why he had forsaken her. 

_ What will my life hold now? _ She wondered, looking back to the man who had stolen her from everything she knew. 

_ Will his kind ever accept me? _ It was hard to place the stares of Sandor’s men on the ship. She could not tell what they were thinking, only that they were curious.

Sansa did not know how slaves were treated in their culture, she had only ever heard vague stories and hearsay. In all honesty, the amount of crops they had to give to their lord in England, had basically made her and her family slaves. Her father had not owned the land they worked. He had only been allowed to build their small home as a courtesy. The grains and vegetables they cultivated needed to be given to the high lord and his army. 

_ The very army that wasn’t there for us when the raiders came. The very army that had fallen on the beach in defeat.  _ Sansa let that sink in a moment. All her hard work and toil to feed men who were cowards, to feed men who did not care to protect them. The very thought made her sick to her stomach. Sansa thought back to her ghastly dreams over the last days, then looked back to the sea, wondering what they were trying to tell her. Death, the raven, her need for revenge. 

_ Are my dreams warnings? A sign of what’s to come?  _ She had no answers, not now anyway.

Before Sandor she had been a peaceful girl, one who went about her day with relative ease. Sansa had done her chores, respected her father, and had never lashed out at anybody in anger. All that changed when the Northmen came to her village. Her encounter with these Vikings had taken her down a path she could not turn from. They had taken away an innocent part of her that she had never realized she had before it was too late. However, they had also given her something, made her more than she was before. Emotions she had never felt pulsed through her tiny body. Thoughts, feelings, fears that the farm girl could not name and therefore could not know if they were good or bad. Sansa knew, as the cold wind graced her face and a new day came, that she would need to keep all her wits about her, and mind the lessons Sandor and his crew had unwittingly taught her, if she was going to survive in this new land.

* * *

“En ryttare,” Sansa heard Sandor’s voice near her, stirring her from her sleep. It held a twinge of alarm in his normally calm voice. 

Tormund chimed in softly, “Ja, på åsen. Du kan höra hovarna eka på klippväggarna. De känner inte säkert till terrängen.”

Sansa readjusted her position on the hard wooden deck, but made no effort to open her eyes or remove herself from the warm bundling of furs Sandor had wrapped her in earlier. The closer they had gotten to land or, more accurately, the further north they went, the colder it had become. Day was only just bearable in her light woolen dress with no shoes. Night brought with it a cold wind amplified by the harsh temperature of the sea. It was enough to make her cheeks rosy and her body shiver.

There had been excitement during the day as the small speck of land sighted on the horizon in the early morning had become bigger and bigger. Once they moved from the open sea into a more narrow inlet, Sansa had glimpsed the most amazing nature she had ever seen. Wild cliffs covered in evergreen trees stretched as far as the eye could see. Theirs was a rocky terrain, making the farm girl wonder if they could sow any seed there given the thickness of the forests and multitude of stones. 

Yet, as the flotilla rowed through the ever narrowing inlet, Sansa felt her body giving in. The sea sickness she had experienced, her moon blood, and her dreams had exhausted her. It seemed the comfort she felt being close to land had allowed her body to relax, and with it feel all the aches, pain, and exhaustion this journey had brought with it. Darkness fell and they had not reached their destination. Sleep had overwhelmed her, the need for warmth driven her to the safety of the small nest Sandor had created for them. It was from this spot she listened to him speaking to Tormund in the darkness. 

Their hushed tones alerting her that something was wrong.

Torches at the front of the ships and communication between the men and ships seemed to make their treacherous navigation of the rocks and coastline in the dark easier. Yet Sana was in awe of the risks these men took to adventure out to new lands, to find new territories to raid.

_ For as barbaric as they are made out to be, they know much about how to master the seas _ , she thought. Their ships were sturdy and their knowledge of navigation vast. Certainly no Englishman had achieved what they had traveled by sea so far. 

She had not settled back into the relative quiet before she heard Sandor and Tormund talk between themselves again. This time, there was even more concern in their strained voices. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She peaked out from a small opening in the furs.

“Fartyg i viken,” Tormund mumbled. “Vad ska vi signalera till våra män?”

Sandor shifted uncomfortably and leaned forward, as if he were trying to get a better look at something in the moonlight. “Jag känner inte den här klanen,” his voice was pensive, a low grumble in his throat. 

Both men were on the bow of the ship looking ahead. “Färgerna liknar Hardyng men seglen ...” Sandor broke off a moment as if in thought. “Jag kan inte säga om de är vän eller fiende, bara att de är här - i väntan på vår återkomst.”

There was silence. An awkward, pregnant silence between the two men. Sansa’s heart raced.

“De är på bryggan. Ser ut som tre av dem med facklor och svärd,” Tormund warned his friend. Sansa didn’t like the last word. Any mention of swords could only mean violence. The edge to the normally jovial ginger’s voice made the farm girl nervous. In the meantime there was some whispering on the ship from the others aboard.

“Nå, nu vet vi att ryttaren var deras spejare,” Sandor offered, stroking his beard in thought. Tormond’s body language showed he took little comfort in whatever Sandor had told him.

All at once Tormund jumped on the bow, his hand on the masthead as he precariously balanced and squinted into the night. “Den enorma mannen på bryggan är definitivt inte Hardyng,” Tormund said. “Han är alldeles för stor och bred.”

Sandor laughed a good hearty laugh at his friend’s words. “Visste inte att du var både blind och dum. Det är en jäkla Sköldmö. Titta, hon har bröst på sin rustning”

“Det där är den största kvinnan jag någonsin sett. Hon är .... Hon är ... .förbluffande.” Sansa could sense surprise in Tormund’s words, and interest. It was so hard to make out what they were talking about given that she could only see so little from her warm cocoon. But she knew there was about a woman, more than that she could not say. “Jag vill göra stora jättebebisar med henne ...”

“Lugn nu, min vän,” she could hear Sandor say, then he slapped his friend hard on the back. “Hon kan lika gärna göra ett halsband av din kuk snarare än att njuta av den.”

At that the two shared a laugh.

“Vad ska vi göra?” Tormund asked, “Komma ut med våra svärd svingande?”

“Du blåser alltid ditt krigshorn för tidigt,” Sandor said with a snort. “Det är henne och två livvakter, fler ser jag inte.” Both men were looking off into the near distance. Sandor’s voice had a calm, rational cadence to it. Yet it did little to belie the uncertainty that still lingered there. 

Sandor continued,“Låt oss inte agera otrevligt. Jag hälsar henne, sedan tar du männen runt byn för att se till att hon inte har några överraskningar. Inga vapen, inget våld.” He was stern, as if to make sure his friend could not misinterpret his words in any way. 

“Vad kommer du att försvara dig med då?” She heard Tormund ask Sandor.

“Sansa,” he said simply. The farm girl stiffened under the furs, for she knew not what he meant. Only that he had mentioned her name and that something would happen. She was on pins and needles, her breathing erratic.

Not too long after that, Sansa felt the bear cloak being folded away from her, the cool night air hitting her skin. Sandor picked her up, cradling her in his arms. He was warm, but not nearly as warm as the fur had been. Sansa shivered. 

At that moment there was some commotion on the ship, sails pulled, oars brought out of the water and a scrambling for rope. Sansa felt the warmth of the bear fur once more, as somebody helped heap it over Sandor’s massive shoulders, tying it in the front. The neck was open enough that her nose and a bit of her cheek stuck out, but all she could see was Sandor's neck and his flowing hair. 

_ He’s tense _ , she thought. It was so strange to Sansa. They spoke little together yet she knew the beating of his heart intimately. She knew when he was calm, when he was happy, aroused, and also when he was tense. It had been the rhythm of her new life, the beating and pounding of a single man’s heart. Now, she knew he was concerned in a way she had never felt before. It made her stir in his arms.

“Shushh,” he whispered now to her. “Tyst nu,” she knew those words, even if she did not know much. Sansa remained still, trusting him over anything else they would experience whilst on land. 

The ship made it to the dock, a gentle thud on the wooden planks. Sansa could hear ropes being pulled and tightened, the low whispering of men’s voices as they did their work. Sandor stepped confidently onto the dock and Sansa let out a breath of relief. If she never got on a boat again it would be too soon.

“Vem, i Hels namn, är du?” She could hear him say, a darkly formal, harsh tone to his voice. 

A woman answered him in an equally formal and stiff manner, “Jag är Brienne…”

“Shusshh!” Sandor cut her off rudely, “Hon sover.”

There was a lengthy pause while the woman cleared their throat uncomfortably. Though she wanted to, Sansa didn’t dare peek out from the safety of Sandor’s huge bear cloak. 

“Jag är Brienne of Tarth. Jarl av Skara,” the mystery woman said, her tone much quieter than before. There was a confidence to this woman’s voice, something that made Sansa wonder who she was. Clearly they were not on good terms, Sansa didn’t need to know everything they said to understand that. 

In her mind, Sansa wondered what this woman looked like. If she had to guess just from where the sound of her voice was coming from, Sansa was certain she was tall. Certainly tall enough to look Sandor in the face, and that was saying something.

Sandor snorted in an intimidating and unamused way, “Har aldrig hört talas om dig. Har aldrig hört talas om det där skithålet heller.” The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Sandor’s whole demeanor had changed. He was challenging her. 

_ What a homecoming,  _ Sansa’s mind was racing.  _ What are they fighting about? Me?  _ The farm girl fought to keep her breathing as easy and silent as she could. Remembering Sandor’s wish that she remain quiet. 

“Fina fartyg, Sköldmö.” Sansa felt him adjust his grip on her. “De påminner mig om Jarl Harolds skepp ... med några förändringar förstås.” His words pierced like daggers through the night. Sansa could feel her own heart pound with fear, even if he wasn’t addressing her.

“Jag vann dem i en Holmgång med exakt den Jarl du talar om. Lustigt nog,” the woman’s voice was cold as ice, an equal edge to it. She was not one to be intimidated, even by a man as imposing as he. Sansa had to respect that.

At that an unexpected laugh emanated from Sandor’s throat, which seemed to calm the tense situation. “Till och med en pojkehora i klänning kunde slå Harry i en Holmgång. Men du är inte en pojkehora och jag tror inte heller att du någonsin har använt en klänning.”

The woman snorted, matching Sandor’s more relaxed tone. “Det var många klagomål mot honom,” she said.”Många av oss hade helt enkelt fått nog.”

“Nog för att döda honom?” Sandor asked, shifting Sansa’s weight in his arms.

“Inte riktigt. Men tillräckligt för att dela upp hans länder och rikedomar. Man kan säga att det är ett öde värre än döden.” The woman said smugly. 

With that Sandor barked a laugh, and Sansa knew everything was going to be ok. “Ta godis från vackra små pojkar? Det en historia jag måste höra. Följ med mig till mitt långhus, där vi kan dela lite öl och bröd. Jag ska inte misstänka några överraskningar på vägen dit, eller hur?” There was mistrust in his tone, but at least it was more open than before.

“Nej,” She replied simply. 

Sansa did not hear much more of what they said, Sandor’s calm heart beat had put her at ease. The farm girl found herself snuggling into his thick chest, closing her eyes and letting her ears investigate this new world around her. There were several pairs of footsteps in addition to Sandor’s. One was certainly the woman who had met him on the dock, then there were two others with them. Sansa liked the crunching of dirt under his feet, and felt a sort of calm in that idea that she would not have fear being lost at sea.

Sandor and the woman chatted in the darkness, quietly. Sansa could hear other voices as well, female voices but could not make out what they were saying. They weaved through the village, it seemed to take forever to get where they were going. 

Suddenly he stopped, mumbling something to another person. A male voice answered in a way that Sansa knew was friendly and welcoming. The door squeaked on its hinges, and she could feel the warmth of a healthy hearth burst through the open doorway. Sandor stood there a moment, making her wonder why he didn’t just walk in. 

“Vad ser du på, flicka?” she heard him say threateningly. “Du stannar här ute med honom och vaktar dörren.”

There was an uncomfortable moment, before they entered the house. Sandor had to duck to make it through, but Sansa was glad for the warmth of this place, and the footsteps of others. Somebody followed him in from the outside, yet another stirred within the house.

“Sitt,” Sandor ordered somebody as he continued walking through the building. It took him several more paces to traverse the house, making Sansa wonder if they all lived communally or if he was wealthy to have such a large home. Finally his steps brought them a couple of wooden stairs. The planks creaked, and Sansa felt him push away a curtain. A lighter set of footsteps was not far behind him, for Sansa heard the curtain push back a second time along with the gentle padding of feet. 

“Ni är tillbaka, herre,” Sansa heard a child’s voice say. She stiffened, wondering who this girl was in his home. There was no need to be jealous, and yet, she could not deny she’d grown attached to Sandor in the intimate time they had spent together. Somehow it felt like a lifetime, to the point that it got difficult to remember how her life was before.

There were some murmurs back and forth before Sansa felt herself being lowered onto a soft, feather bed. It was unlike anything she had ever slept on before, free of fleas and forming to her body. She exhaled and sunk deeper into the mattress. Sandor’s heavy footsteps crossed the room, back through the curtain from which they came. 

_ He’s left me alone,  _ Sansa realized, a pang of fear in her chest. 

Since the time he had stolen her they had never been apart. It was strange not to feel the beating of his heart, or hear his gentle breaths next to her. Small, feminin hands began to undo the lacing of her dress. Sansa opened her eyes to see a girl, no more than 10 or 11 removing the garment. She was still a child, the baby fat not gone in her cheeks, her long, blonde hair wild. 

_ Who is this girl, and why is she here? _

She was not his daughter, Sansa was almost certain of that. She had studied Sandor’s face often over their journey and this girl bore no resemblance to him at all. When Sansa tried to utter a word, the girl raised her hands indicating she not speak. Thin, adept fingers removed her shift leaving Sansa naked on the bed -- the cold hitting her body hard, raising goosebumps on her skin. The young girl stared at her a moment, her eyes wandering from her taut pink nipples to the fire red curls between her legs. 

_ I’m exotic to her,  _ Sansa realized. 

It was the gaze of a girl nearing the time when she would become a woman. Coveting anything that was different from her flat, boxy, boylike form. It was not jealousy, but a keen interest in what distinguished a girl from a woman. Sansa made to say something but then thought better of it.  _ We will not understand each other anyway. _

So they stared at one another for quite some time. To the point where she was not sure if she was expected to do something. Her discomfort growing, Sansa moved to cover her most intimate parts from view. The realization that her actions were inappropriate made the girl blush slightly before heaping several clean furs on top of Sansa’s shivering body. Once covered almost head to toe in warmth, the mysterious girl went to lighting some candles in the room, and a small hearth to warm it. 

Snuggling down into the bed Sansa realized how exhausted she was. Though she’d spent her last days on a ship, with no physical labor in the fields, her body ached. That feeling was exacerbated by the softness of the bed. It was as if her bones didn’t know how to react to such a luxury. Her eyes began to close slowly, though Sansa fought it. For her dreams had been full of death, and vengeance. If anything this, and the curiosity of Valhalla had, stolen her sleep and she was not so apt to give it more of herself if she could help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Just to remind you, the translations for the second part of this story will come in chapter 6 ;-) So don't worry too much, Sandor's perspective is quite interesting on these parts and will give better context anyway :-)


	6. More Shield Maidens Than Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is greeted by a woman he doesn't know, making a claim that will lead to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a whole month since I updated and that SUCKS! On the upside I signed for a new job so I've been working hard to start making that transition.
> 
> A special thanks to Redbirdblackdog for the picset (as always) and for helping me come up with a name for Sandor's mother. 
> 
> Also, I've broken with canon already, but just so it's clear, Sandor is the youngest child. His brother the oldest, his sister in the middle.
> 
> Some words and ideas you need to know:  
> \- Ylva -- Female Wolf  
> \- Temple of Uppsala -- an incredibly holy place for the early Vikings where all the clans would go and observe rituals, often engaging in sacrifice both animal and human. Look it up, really interesting history there!  
> \- Loki -- A trickster god  
> \- Holmgang -- a dual in which the opponent cannot really refuse once you have offered it. Sometimes to the death, sometimes more ritual, if you challenged somebody for their lands and won it was legal to take them.

# 

#  Chapter 6: More Shield Maidens Than Expected

Dusk had already fallen by the time Sandor and his ships reached the narrow inlet, which marked the final part of their long journey. The Viking inhaled deeply. The scent of pine and sea that filled his nostrils was the smell of home. His people were an exploring, adventurous lot. Hard winters and short summers forced them to go beyond the boundaries of their farming territory in search of trade, food, and wealth. Yet no land Sandor had ever visited compared to his homeland. Having lived many years as a hermit the Viking felt more connected to this land than many of those in his own village. Man or woman, you had to be strong in both mind and body to not just survive, but thrive. 

Before the last bit of daylight vanished, Sandor was able to assess the snowline in the mountains. It was disheartening to know that their raiding season would soon be over, to the point that Sandor slammed his fist on the side of his ship in frustration. One more run to England would have secured him enough personal wealth to buy Sansa from the other Jarls outright, even with some extra to sweeten the pot if necessary. Now, he would have to see how he navigated the slippery slope of wealth distribution both within his own clan, as well as between clans.

That made him uneasy. It was unlike him to fret about anything, but this beautiful young thrall he had taken for himself had changed all that. He turned to look at the girl, who had fallen asleep from exhaustion. It had been a rough time for her on the ship, but he’d done his best to keep her spirits high. Sandor smiled when he looked at her, pleased at her relative health and, of course, that she had bled. Had she been with another man’s child it would have been a complicated situation, making him choose between keeping a bastard, or taking it to the woods. He thanked Freja for these little courtesies, knowing he and Sansa would be able to start a fresh life together.

It was bittersweet to think about living with a woman again. Sandor was not often taken with emotion, but this English girl, who had inhabited his dreams since before she was born, had awakened feelings long atrophied. Unlike almost most men he commanded, Sandor had been brought up by his mother and sister on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Those years were highly formative, and it had given him an insight into the opposite sex that few knew he possessed. That was why he had known what Sansa needed as he had gotten her moon blood, and been able to care for her. There was an added bonus of knowing her cycle now, and he would be able to take more care to ensure she did not get pregnant too quickly. The Viking wanted her to learn the ways of the sword and the axe, relishing the idea of enjoying their bed together without the added concern of children. The very thought of being together with her made him crack a grin. It was a facial expression he was unaccustomed to yet enjoyed all the same.

Darkness fell quickly, but they were far too close to home now for Sandor to sleep. The sound of hooves brought both Sandor and Tormund’s eyes to the ridge above them. The moon shone bright enough to make out a few small details. A cloak fluttered behind a horse, disappearing into the darkness.

“A rider,” Sandor muttered to his friend. He didn’t dare point to where he knew the sound was coming from, unaware if anybody else was watching them from a hidden location in the rocks. His eyes pointed for him, that was all he needed.

Tormund chimed in softly, “Yes, on the ridge. You can hear the hooves echo off the cliff walls. They’re not familiar with the terrain for sure.”

They were certainly foreigners, otherwise they would have realized how much could be heard from the water. As boys he and Tormund would seek out this place, watch the ships coming home from a raid, and listen to the men chattering from below. You could hear voices on the water as much as you could hear activity on the ridges, so they were always quiet. But had you not grown up in this area, you would not know that. The thought of foreigners here did not sit well with the Viking.

_ Has the village been raided? Does somebody lie in wait for us?  _ These, and many other thoughts ran through the Viking’s mind. 

So many things could happen while on a raid, Sandor knew this. Two full cycles of the moon had passed since he and his men had been home. Disease could wipe out half the village, bandits might come to make off with winter grain stores, a competing Jarl could claim the territory as his own. Taking the most battle hardened men you had, leaving your farms and possessions behind in search of riches brought with it certain risks you had to be willing to take. 

As a leader he was expected to both look after the prosperity and safety of his village, as well as ensure their wealth could increase through raiding. Both endeavors had their advantages and disadvantages, making Sandor wonder if, this time, his luck had run out. The rider on the ridge could mean anything, yet his mind went to the worst case scenario. 

Sandor stroked his beard while he considered what to do. There was a thrill that coursed through his veins at the thought of battle. Finding this land to the West and finding success there had put a target on his back. Wealth, prosperity, and fame all brought with them the jealousy of men. Men who would gladly challenge him be it openly or through nefarious means to get what he had. 

_ Poor challengers,  _ he grinned to himself thinking of all the sorry idiots who had met their early death by his hand. 

Sandor looked down at the bundle of furs on deck, happy to find Sansa still sleeping there. The girl had absolutely no affinity for the cold, spending more time under the warmth of his huge cloak the further north they pushed. The thought of providing her with the best furs he could hunt and trade excited the Viking, because he wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. His lands were not easy to live on. They were not as lush and fertile as those she was used to, and yet they provided. His people were connected to the land and the sea, knowledge passed between villages and families. War, be it for the sake of defense or to acquire more land, was a fact of life amongst his people. It was something Sansa knew little about and yet, he could sense that fire to survive inside of her. It burned brighter than the sun on the summer days that never ended, and he was confident she would do well here.

Sandor kept an eye out, using both the light of the moon and the torches on the ship to lead his flotilla through the narrow inlet. The waters were high, and for that he was thankful. While there was no chance of meeting an unforgiving sea here, it would not be difficult to hit a large boulder and damage a ship, or sink it. He could not afford it so close to home, especially now that he knew something awaited him other than the adore of his people. 

The moon lit up Sandor’s home harbor, it was a natural offshoot from the inlet that opened up into a wide bay. Extremely protected with sheer cliffs which scooped down to sea level. There was where his people had made their home. His village was built right to the water, some wooden docks constructed for their ships. The gods only knew how long Uppåkra had been inhabited, surely longer than Sandor’s parents had been alive. It was a beautiful place, well positioned for trading. In the last years as Sandor was nominated and voted Jarl, he had done much to expand his territory and make it a trading hub. The Viking did not like what he saw before him, Tormund merely narrated his own thoughts. 

“Ships in the bay,” Tormund said in a hushed tone. They were the lead ship, and the first to glimpse these intruders. “What shall we signal to our men?”

Sandor shifted uncomfortably and leaned forward to get a better look. The flags, which flew atop the masts of the handful of ships in his harbor, were not familiar to him. So either somebody had traveled from far to have an audience, or somebody did not want to be detected. There was something to be said about deception, and Sandor could not judge which was more likely. 

“I do not know this clan,” Sandor could not suppress the concern in his voice. Though his ships were numerous and his men were strong, that did not mean they could best a force already embedded in the village. Should an attack happen, they would not be able to make it all to shore fast enough. Sandor pondered this a moment, shifting his eyes to Sansa presumably still sleeping in his cloak.

As they got closer, Sandor was able to better observe the masts and shields on the side of the ships. “ The colors are similar to Hardyng’s but the sails… ” 

Harrold Hardyng had recently become Jarl of the territories to the north of his own. The boy’s father had died an old man, though he had fought many a good battle. In those cases it was best to throw a big funeral in order to ensure he take his rightful place in Valhalla. Sandor remembered this spring day well, because he’d been so angry at the boy for not sacrificing a stallion, that Sandor had offered one of his own. Harry’s father and he might have had their differences, but that didn’t mean he deserved to spend the rest of eternity in Hel. 

The boy was vain, too pretty for his own good, and not a proven warrior. Harry was happy to wear and flaut the riches his father had fought so hard for, then leave the hard work of raiding and fighting to those he thought were loyal to him. It was a stupid move, one that Sandor had often reflected on. Jarls and power came and went like the passing of winter, which meant if you wanted to keep your rightful place there was a constant need to prove yourself. Besting Sandor, or taking his lands would be a way to do this. 

_ But only if he can retain my lands,  _ Sandor smirked openly at the thought.

The Viking had no qualms about going to war with Hardyng. If anything he would welcome the chance to persuade the young Jarl’s people to join him should they seek prosperity in the future. There were good men that had served Harry’s father, ones who would make good raiders and farmers. All Sandor needed was an excuse, and now he wondered if he had been provided just such an opportunity. 

Squinting as best he could, Sandor tried to get any indication of why they might be here. Ships filled with barrels and cages could indicate a large trading party. Shackles and more bits of iron, a slaver. Clear decks, war. They were clear, and it made Sandor’s heart beat like a drum. 

“ I cannot say whether they are friend or foe, only that they are here -- awaiting our return, ” both he and Tormund knew his words were more for the benefit of those who could be listening. Sandor did not want to sow confusion nor did he want the word to travel between his ships before he made a decision. To blow the war horn and attack his own village could go poorly, to be ambushed even more so. 

He and Tormund stared at one another, reading each other’s thoughts as they often did. Tormund’s eye then went back to the dock, now ablaze with torch light. 

“ They’re on the dock. Looks like three of them with torches, and swords ,” he said. Sandor could hear the tension rising in his friend’s voice, and wanted to make sure they stayed as calm as possible. His eyes moved to the dock, hoping to quickly solve the mystery of who was waiting for their return.

“ Well, now we know the rider was their scout, ” Sandor stroked his beard in thought, trying to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. They were not simple traders, that much was clear. Sandor had to admit there was a bit of amusement to the idea of a battle, particularly how much he would enjoy tying that blond pretty boy to a pole in the center of the two for the children to kick shit in his face.

All at once Tormund jumped on the bow, his hand on the masthead as he precariously balanced and squinted into the night. “ That huge man on the dock is definitely not Hardyng ,” Tormund said. “ He’s far too big and broad .”

His friend didn’t have to say anymore, Sandor grinned as the people on the dock came into view.  _ Bloody shield maidens? What the fuck do they want? _

While not all men of his standing did, Sandor held a good respect for women who would devote their lives to Tyr as he had. Female warriors were the subject of many a lonely soldier's song of love and admiration. Prized for their strength and fearlessness on the battlefield there were many men who would gladly give their hearts to a shield maiden, should he be lucky enough to meet one in his lifetime. 

Of course there were women amongst the ranks of Sandor’s raiding party, he did not discriminate as long as you could row and hold your own in battle. But they were not real shield maidens, not like the ones who stood on the dock decked out in full armor with their finely honed weapons at their side. It had been ages since he’d seen proper ones like these, their leader flanked by two female bodyguards. 

_ The last time was my own mother,  _ Sandor swallowed hard, the vision of her difficult to handle. Sandor’s mother had been one of the most famous shield maidens of her time. Ylva the Bold was a master sword’s woman, an amazing teacher, and a beauty-- the saga’s written of her adventures were nearly legend, every word of them true. Feelings of loss and rage boiled inside of him as they neared the dock. 

_ I will avenge my mother and my sister, but for now it must wait.  _ Inhaling, Sandor did his best to quiet the rage inside of him, focusing back on his friend’s poor insights. The youngest son of Clegane laughed a good hearty laugh at Tormund’s words. “ Didn’t know you’re both blind and stupid. That’s a bloody shield maiden. Look, she has tits on her armor. ”

If anything Sandor knew his friend would quickly fall in love. He was a sucker for a big strong woman, ran after them like a puppy dog in search of a home. This one though, was a cut above the rest. Even from where they were on the ships, Sandor could see how tall she was. Her posture was upright, her sword comparable in length to his own.  _ Is she as formidable as she looks? _ He wondered.  _ And what does she want? _

“ That’s the biggest woman I’ve ever seen. She’s….she’s….amazing .” Sandor could hear that forlorn love in Tormund’s voice as he scrambled to eye her from the deck. The Viking would need to keep his right hand man focused. As they did not know her intentions Sandor was eager to keep her at arms length -- figure out what she was made of before allowing her into his circle of trust. If that's what she wanted. Given Gregor’s reputation as a murder, rapist, and torturer combined with Sandor’s own monstrous look, most people assumed all of Clegane’s sons were the same. While that was far from the truth, Sandor often used this misconception to his advantage when fear and intimidation were needed. It certainly shielded him from huge challenges to his lands, so he walked this line as best he could. 

“ I want to make big giant babies with her… ” Tormund continued, as if possessed by a spirit. His mouth hung open, his blue eyes wide just trying to comprehend how he would pleasure all that woman at once. 

“Easy there, my friend,” Sandor laughed, slapping his friend hard enough on the back to knock the wind out of him. “ She might just as well make a necklace out of your cock rather than enjoy it.” 

The very idea that she might rip his cock off was enough to send his best friend over the moon.The cheeky cunt always did like a challenge, and from the looks of it, this woman certainly provided him one. They laughed because neither one of them needed to say anything, Tormund’s googly eyes were more than enough.

“What shall we do?” the ginger asked, coming down to earth. “Come out swords swinging?”

Sandor almost spat out another laugh, considering the double meaning of Tormund’s words. “You always blow your war horn too early,” Sandor teased, remembering nights as they celebrated at the temple in Uppsala. Tormund was not unpopular with the ladies, even if he did let his passion get the better of him. “It is her and two bodyguards, more I do not see.” 

Sandor’s blood was pumping at full throttle through his body, heightening his senses. His gut was a mix of emotions, usually so clear. Part of him was protective of his lands and people, not wanting them to fall prey to an upstart with something to prove. It made his heart thump as it would when he was about to go into battle. Yet, from her very posture and formal stance, Sandor did not think this woman wanted war. She was ready for it surely, but something whispered in his heart telling him there was no treachery here. He hoped it was not Loki, for he was finished with tricksters and would not take kindly should his decision be wrong. 

“ Let us not act rashly. I will greet her, then you take the men around the village to make sure she has no surprises. No weapons, no violence .” Sandor was not one hundred percent sure in his words, and Tormund knew it right away. He was thankful that the ginger didn’t argue with him, but rather chose to eye him in an unsure, questioning manner. 

“ What will you defend yourself with then? ” His friend asked, trying to push Sandor to think logically.

“Sansa,” he said simply. 

Sandor watched the confusion form on Tormund’s face before it turned to understanding. There was something to be said about surprising your enemy, but the youngest son of Clegane had already lost some ground on that front. Instead he would have to do something unexpected in order to keep his guest on her toes. Sandor’s reputation as a skilled warrior and berserker preceded him. For as rare as it was to meet a shield maiden of this calibre so was it to meet a warrior like Sandor. This woman would certainly have ideas in her head as to how he would be, and the kind of man he was. 

The Viking was used to being sized up and having the wrong conclusions drawn. It was those kinds of things that he used to his advantage in situations like this. This shield maiden would expect him to come out with the hand on the hilt of his sword, have his men swarm around her as if even a step into his territory was enough to start a war. Yet Sandor was not one for such idol pissing contests. He needed to understand his enemy before deciding which course of action was the best. Hence he would not come to her with a sword raised, but instead with a beautiful young woman nestled in his arms. This female warrior would be less likely to strike him with an innocent girl between them. Sandor knew the sisterhood between such women was strong, stronger than that of him and his own men. And he would capitalize on this. 

Sandor smirked, curious as to how she would react to his little plan to gain the upper hand in their conversation. He motioned to Tormund, then uncovered Sansa from the warmth of the furs. The girl shivered in the cold night air, her eyes opening as she squirmed in his arms. He smiled, cradling his precious package and waited for Tormund to throw the cloak over his shoulders and tie it in the front. Sandor’s intimidating air was not to be underestimated, particularly when he wore this cloak. It was a symbol of his strength, and of the fact that he had ventured far and wide, lived on his own in the most extreme conditions, and in so doing, fought and killed a bear of enormous size. 

At that time in his life, after his mother and sister were murdered, he had not cared whether he lived or died. Sandor’s inability to save the women he loved against his own brother had pushed him north, where he built a cabin in the mountains and lived as a hermit for some years. He had not had the courage to kill himself, though it had crossed his mind often in the beginning. Instead he survived on his own. Living from the land and mastering the axe and the sword in the ways his mother had taught him. It was in this time where he had communed with nature, found himself amongst the deep forest, and the exceptionally cold, dark nights of winter. It was then, that he had been confronted by a hungry bear, the biggest the Viking had ever seen. Cornered, and with only two axes and a bow at his disposal, Sandor had fought this creature. Skill and dumb luck had played a large role in his success, and had given him enough meat to last him until he decided to rejoin society -- and eventually seek his revenge. The cloak he made from the skin served as a warning to those who would oppose him and a memento of sacrifice.

He could see the color of the shield maiden’s eyes now, but Sandor didn’t break her gaze as his ship came slowly to the dock. His men ran around securing the ropes and sales ensuring that it would slide into place easily in the water. At the noise Sansa stirred, “Shushh,” he whispered, keeping a comforting tone to his deep voice. “Quiet now.” 

It was easy to forget how much of a first impression his face made, since he’d lived with his brother’s treacherous mark most of his life. Yet Sandor couldn’t decide what struck him more, when people feared him because of his burns, or were simply horrified. That was what had instantly set Sansa apart from the rest, she had simply not cared. She neither pitied nor feared him for this, she had taken him as he was. In contrast this woman feared him. She did not show it in her face, but he could see it in her eyes. As if he were a monster from a terrible dream. 

His little bird was light as a feather, allowing him to easily step onto the wooden dock, approaching his uninvited guests. Sandor was not one to mince his words, a cold venomous tone on his lips “Who, by the goddess of hell, are you?” 

His counterpart eyed him up, checking to see if the stories of his strength and stature were true, and seemed somewhat astonished that they were. The storytellers were known for embellishing, making certain things bigger than life. 

But not him. 

“I am Brienne…” the woman started, her voice strong. She was not one to be intimidated easily by the mere presence of a man, and Sandor liked that. It didn’t mean, however, that he was not willing to understand how she worked.

“Shusshh!” Sandor cut her off rudely, tipping his head down to the bundle in his arms. “She’s sleeping.” 

The warrior’s eyes narrowed as if Brienne had overstepped a sacred boundary she dared not. Dumbstruck the woman standing in front of him blinked a few times, trying to figure out what to say next. To quiet a free woman because a thrall slept was unexpected if not completely unheard of. Yet Sandor had done it with an authority that made the woman question who he had in his arms and what their relationship was. 

_ And so begins our little dance,  _ Sandor’s flint colored eyes bored into her own, ready to test what she was made of.

The female warrior cleared her throat uncomfortably before continuing in a more hushed tone, “I am Brienne of Tarth. Jarl of Skara.” 

Sandor could hear Tormund suck in breath, as if he were some wild bull that would need to be tied down. It was amusing how his friend could be so great in battle and so awkward socially. The hulking Viking turned his head to his friend and glared him into obedience, before turning back to the woman in front of him. She was nearly his height, and had a good broad build. Odin had made her a warrior, the question was more whether she had guts to match her physique. 

When their eyes met again, Sandor cocked his head to the side as if to indicate that the very thought of a woman being Jarl befuddled him. It was the kind of reaction she expected from a man like him -- one who was known far and wide in their lands for being a skilled warrior and a hard, violent man. In truth he had never heard of this place, much less of a female Jarl. That did not, however, mean Skara didn’t exist or that a woman could not become its leader. No laws he was aware of forbade leadership if you were cockless. Though many of his contemporaries would argue that point.

Sandor snorted in an intimidating and unamused way, “ Never heard of you. Never heard of that shit hole either .” The hulking warrior stepped forward as if begging her to give him a reason to fight. It was a clear message as to what he thought of her abilities with a sword, that he would be able to disarm her and her bodyguards even with the disadvantage of carrying a girl in his arms. 

Most men would promptly shit their pants at this point, but Brienne didn’t back down. Instead she stared him daringly in the eye. It made Sandor smile to himself, pleased at the very idea that she had some kind of backbone. 

_ But there is a fine line between grit and stupidity.  _ That was what he endeavored to establish in this sitdown. Sandor had to know what kind of person she was, and if she threatened his existence. Without uncovering this knowledge they could not move forward.

He regripped his sleeping bundle with some regret. The great warrior wanted nothing more than to lay with her in his bed and snuggle. To finally feel her naked next to him would be the true test of his resolve. To wake her in the early morning with a kiss, cupping her sex, and using his fingers to convince her to allow him between her legs. Sandor could think of nothing sweeter than the sound of her shallow breaths while he made love to her slowly. Given the circumstances however, he shook the idea quickly from his mind. The warrior knew he would not have the luxury of seducing the girl, not for a while anyway. His eyes turned out to the water, the back to the woman in front of him. 

“Nice ships, Shield Maiden,” Sandor said it more as a taunt than anything else. ‘ They remind me of Jarl Harold’s ships...with a few alterations of course. .” Sandor wanted to goad her, see which strings he could pull to make her angry. It was the only way to ensure she did not come by her title through treachery.

“ I won them in a holmgang with exactly the Jarl you speak of. Funny that. ” She shot back, a satisfied grin on her face. 

Sandor didn’t fight the laugh that emanated from his throat, because the very circumstances were both ironic and amusing. For the playboy Harold to lose some of his people, lands, and influence to a plain woman over twice his size, could only have been conceived by Loki. Surely the boy had done something to upset the god, and Sandor reveled in it. 

“ Even a boy whore in a dress could beat Harry in a holmgang,” he said. 

It was not a lie, the young Jarl was not known for his prowess in battle. He wasn’t even that good in bed from what Sandor had heard. Yet, to even challenge a man to such a ritual as a woman, in front of the whole village, took a considerable amount of training and confidence. So Sandor softened the blow of his words, “But you are neither a boy whore nor do I think you’ve ever worn a dress.” That slight acknowledgement of her skills released the tension she held in her face. 

“ There were many grievances against him,” she said, her shoulder relaxing. “Many of us had simply had enough.” 

This was not unexpected coming from her lips, yet it seemed much had happened in Sandor’s absence. Politics was a delicate thing, which had to be handled with the right amount of might and right. The Viking warrior wanted to get to the bottom of this matter as soon as possible. It was absolutely necessary he understood what had happened and how it affected his own people. Without warning his thoughts immediately went to his brother, who had been influencing Hardyng since the moment his old man had breathed his last. That would put her on the outs with two large armies, leaving Sandor her only viable ally.

_ I’m not so sure she wants me as an ally, but I’m all she has.  _ That would give him an advantage in their conversation. The Viking was certain she’d come to ask a favor, but figuring out what and why would prove to be much harder.

Sandor pressed for more information, shifting Sansa so she could rest her cheek better on his chest, “Enough to kill him?” The way she talked he didn’t think Harry was dead, but then again, one could never be sure.

“ Not quite. But enough to split his lands and riches. One might say it’s a fate worse than death,” Brienne said it with a smug grin that made Sandor bark a hearty laugh. The woman had spirit, and liked to get even. 

_ Perhaps they would get along well,  _ he mused searching her eyes in a bid to discern her true thoughts and fears. __

“T aking candy from pretty little boys? Now that is a story I must hear,” Sandor said, his voice changing to a light jovial edge. It was more a signal to those around them that everything was alright, that there would be no violence necessary. At least for now. 

“Come with me to my longhouse, where we can share some ale and bread. I’m not to suspect any surprises on our way there, am I?” Sandor raised an eyebrow.

“No,”she replied simply. Sandor threw a look over his shoulder to Tormund which indicated he’d be fine, but also to search the village anyway. 

Walking past her bodyguards without so much as a look, Sandor began to lead the way looking back to signal Brienne come join him. He knew this kind of woman extremely well, and this put him at ease. Of course there were always things that could change his opinion, but that would only make itself clear the more he kept her talking. 

“The rider on the ridge was yours?” Sandor muttered, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the town, or Sansa, more than necessary. 

“Yes,” Brienne replied, though Sandor saw her cheeks redden. It was a beginner’s error and she knew it. “Our camp is outside of the village. I thought it presumptuous to think you would house us without invitation.”

Sandor said nothing. He didn’t want this woman to think they would be instant allies, nor did he want her to believe them friends. That came with time, and through hardship if you were lucky. For now, he was not in the mood to give anything for free.

“And how big would that camp be?” He asked. 

“One hundred fifty or so,” She answered. 

_ So she has more influence than I thought.  _ You had to admire her leadership capabilities if she had really taken so many battle hardened warriors away from Hardyng.  _ It also leaves my neighbor to the north very vulnerable.  _

Not wanting to draw attention to his thoughts, Sandor quickly threw out a question he knew would rattle her chain. “All women?” His intonation implied 150 might as well have been 15 if that were the case. The expression that flashed upon her face was just what he was looking for, outraged but controlled. 

_ She is desperate if she takes my japes,  _ he mulled this over in his head.

“Most of my warriors are women, but we have men as well. Others work the land and trade.” Her voice stayed even while Sandor considered what she said. 

When they reached his longhouse, he nodded to the man stationed there. It was further good sign that Tormund would find no unwanted surprises as he made his rounds in the village. His guard opened the door and Sandor caught a look at one of Brienne’s bodyguards. The girl had a disrespectful scowl on her face, her eyes narrowed as if the very sight of him made her want to put an axe through his chest. It would not do to allow such open disrespect. 

Turning to her, Sandor narrowed his eyes, “ What are you lookin’ at girl?” The threat in his voice was unmistakable, he could see how she flinched at his words, swallowed in fear at his voice. “You stay out here with him, and guard the door.” 

This time the bodyguard hid her displeasure with him realizing that standing out there in the cold was undesirable compared to being in his presence in the warm inside. Sandor’s eyes flashed to Brienne’s as if to tell her to keep her girl in check, or he would do it for her. An uncomfortable silence passed between them as Sandor entered his longhouse, the warmth of the hearth welcome even to him. 

His eyes going to the long table that was often used to feast in the common area, “Sit,” was all he said to Brienne.

Without casting a further glance, Sandor continued through his home, or more accurately, the house of the Jarl, to where his bedroom was. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Sandor could hear small footsteps and he knew Lisandre was awake. She was a slave girl from the east, the prize of his predecessor. The Viking did not know her age, but judging by her looks and the time he had known her, she could not be older than eleven. As the old Jarl had died and Sandor took his place, his slaves and other property were bequeathed to the successor. Among them was this girl, who had suffered immensely from the older Jarl’s need for young flesh. Not wanting her to be abused further by the other slaves who slept in the barn, Sandor had given her a small smattering of hay near the hearth and the job to keep the house lit and warm at all times. The girl seemed happy to have some responsibility and keep to herself. Now he would need to have her look after Sansa while he was wrapped up in, what he assumed, would be a political matter. 

“You’re back, Master,” he heard her soft voice whisper. 

Sandor merely looked at her and made his way up the two stairs to his private chambers. The curtain that separated it from the center of the longhouse was thin, slightly see through, and he was glad to see everything had been kept clean and in its place. The girl was diligent and he would reward her with extra food. Sandor motioned she remove his cloak, then saw the surprise on her face as his slave glimpsed the woman in his arms. They were not that far apart in age if truth be told. Girls turned into women quickly once they had bled and Sandor could take some comfort in knowing that Sansa’s hips were wide enough to bring a child safely into the world. 

“She is a warrior where she comes from,” he murmured, doing what he could to answer the girl’s unspoken questions. It was not like Sandor to take such slaves, and Lisandre knew that. “I defeated her in battle and have taken her for my own. She will not need these clothes. Make her comfortable and warm, then get our guest some ale and herring.”

The girl merely nodded, but seemed somewhat impressed that a woman would stand up to him in a fight. She looked at Sansa with a slight reverence, which was good. 

“How long has she been here?” he asked, an edge in his voice that promised violence for lies. He nodded his head out to the common area where Brienne sat. 

“A couple of days, no more. Their camp is outside the village. Mostly women.” Lisandre whispered.

Sandor nodded.  _ More shield maidens than expected.  _

He placed Sansa down on the bed and watched her groggily sink into it. He wished he could do the same, his old body was aching and he was exhausted. And yet, duty called. The Viking’s eye lingered on his prize until he could no longer justify it. He turned, making his way back to the common area of the house and back to his waiting opponent. 

Brienne sat unyieldingly upright at the table, her fingers interlaced patiently.  _ She’s not one to deviate from what she thinks is right. She’s correct to a fault,  _ the Viking observed. That was not necessarily a bad thing when choosing who to let into your confidence. 

Sandor had to admit he was somewhere in the middle, both moral and a scoundrel. He navigated these two things with relative ease, dipping from one to the other as he pleased. Yet he understood there were people like his brother, who were irredeemable and people like Brienne, who followed the moral path to the exclusion of everything else. It could make them easy to deal with, or very difficult. 

_ She must be very desperate to drag herself to a man like me and ask for something.  _ He snorted.

Loosening his sword belt, Sandor swung his leg over the bench in a cavalier fashion, and placed his sword on the table, gauging her reaction. She was not easily rattled, Sandor already knew that. But he would push it, see how far he could go before she reigned him in. If they were to be allies, he would need somebody who could both handle him, but also make judgements on their own. 

They eyed one another from across the table a moment, but it was the shield maiden who spoke first. “Who is that?” Her head inclined to the bedroom where he had left Sansa.

“Never seen a bed slave before?” He said in the piggish most entitled way he knew how. “As Jarl surely you will begin to understand the joys of such things.” 

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and he knew he’d riled her up. That was good, only honesty could come in such heated moments of passion. “So we’ve gotten the niceties out of the way, now tell me the real reason you’re here,” he pressed. 

Crossing his arms Sandor leaned back in order to give Lisandre access to the table, placing two horns of ale and some pickled herring on the table. It was an empty gesture of peace, but put the shield maiden at ease. 

“My raiders want to go west with you. We’re a band of strong fighters who…” she began.

Sandor barked a laugh and drank deep of his ale, “Do not insult my intelligence. You might want to ask me this question, but it’s not the reason you are here.” Her story about challenging Harry before, the fact that she had a substantial camp of warriors outside his walls, Sandor knew there was more to it than that. Much much more.

As suspected, the woman was surprised by his perception. The burned corner of his mouth twitched as he devoured a pickled herring and relished the taste of home.

Brienne’s shoulders shifted uncomfortably and she took a swig of ale, which he was sure she didn’t do often, then she spoke. “I would ask for your support.”

Sandor tilted his head in, signaling her to finish her fucking thought. After a breath, the female warrior continued. “My newly acquired lands have been raided. Houses burned to the ground. We have no stocks for the winter…”

The Viking didn’t need to hear more, he knew exactly what was coming out of her mouth next and his mind was already doing what it could to connect the dots. Harry would have certainly been angry that she had both challenged him and won. Yet the boy couldn’t lead a raiding party outside of a burlap sack. Gregor would have had a hand in this, charging the young Jarl dearly for it no doubt.

A dark, condescending smirk crossed Sandor’s face. He cut her off, “For not having a cock, you’ve got some pretty big balls to ask me a question like that.” Sandor leaned back thoughtfully for a moment, “It’s not mine to get involved with such petty squabbles between Jarls.” 

It wasn’t a petty squabble, nor was it a small ask. No food meant the death of hundreds if not more. Sharing his stores with her would make them instant allies, a political marriage of sorts that Sandor wasn’t sure he wanted or needed. Yet he was not opposed to testing the shield maiden’s resolve.

“This is not a mere squabble. My people will die. It wasn’t like we just allowed them in, we fought but the raiders were both prepared and brutal.” She argued.

“You have a camp of over a hundred. More than a few mouths to feed means more sickness and death come with the long dark nights. What makes it worth my while?” Sandor crossed his arms on the table, not breaking eye contact.

“I have warriors, many strong ones ready to fight,” Brienne offered, though she seemed disheartened by his tone.

“Women?” Sandor spat out, just to goad her further. He thought he’d hammer the point home for good measure.

At that the shield maiden stood, slamming her hands on the table, her pale skin flushed with anger. “What difference does it make?”

At that outburst Sandor grinned. He liked her, even if she could not yet see it. “You tell me. What difference does it make?”

“A great deal when you know what I know,” she was dead serious about something, but Sandor detested such kinds of political ambiguity. Yet he’d finally broken through, she was about to tell him something. Something important.

Sandor snorted, “Now we speak in riddles? If you want to tell me something, woman, spit it out.”

“Your brother gathers a great army to rise against you.” She said. 

At that Sandor did laugh hard, “It is known that we despise one another. Did you also unravel the mystery of what happened to my bloody face?” 

His sarcasm didn’t phase her. “It’s true. He will move soon. The more warriors you have in your midst the better, no matter what they have between their legs.” Brienne said her words with such conviction, it was hard for Sandor to distrust her. 

Hard, but not impossible.

“Prove it,” he challenged, leaning forward.

The woman in front of him considered something a moment before reaching into her pocket and placing a single ring on the table between them. Their eyes bore into one another’s to the point that Sandor wasn’t sure whether they would exchange blows. He didn’t need to look down to recognize that ring, a mere glimpse of it had told him everything. Anger, surprise, rage -- all of that and more flooded his consciousness. His pulse quicked, but otherwise he showed no emotion. 

Slowly, Sandor moved his eyes toward the ring unable to stop the sinking of his wounded heart. It was his mother’s ring, simple gold with an emerald in it. She’d worn it the day Gregor defeated her in battle, and he’d taken it as a trophy. If Brienne had this, she had gotten it at great expense, because Gregor always kept the ring on a thin golden chain around his neck. This was not won in a holmgang nor simply misplaced on the battlefield. You either had to kill him, or fuck him to get it. Both options came with their own twisted hazards.

They spoke only with their eyes, confirming it was the latter. The sadness on Brienne’s face told Sandor all he needed to know. She had come by this ring at great expense, probably a trusted advisor or friend. The woman before him wasn’t Gregor’s type, he liked them young, small, and breakable. 

“How long did she live?” His voice was somber, serious, his strong man front greatly diminished.

Brienne inhaled deeply in a bid to sooth her emotions. “A couple of days, but her death came as a great relief. Nobody would be able to live normally after what he did to her. But he never found the ring, nor did he think she would live long enough to tell us what she knew.”

“I’m sorry,” Sandor said finally. A minor consolation given the great personal pain she had suffered.

“Don’t apologize to me, say it to Asha outside. It was her partner who offered to go, to subject herself to his rape and torture.”

There it was, the reason the girl outside hated him so much. While he didn’t look like his brother, they were both sons of Clegane, and sometimes that was enough. Besides, Sandor’s reputation either won or inferred, was not so much better than his brother’s. 

Sandor gripped the ring in the palm of his hand. This information changed everything. The council of Jarls would be the time for Gregor to strike. The peace kept for ages would be thrown away for what? Some wealth, and a final attempt to finish what he had started when they were boys. A sibling rivalry for the ages. 

The front door opened making Sandor glance toward it. Tormund entered the room, red cheeked from the cold but with a relieved look on his face. It told Sandor the village was clear, that this woman wanted nothing more than food, shelter, and revenge for her people. Things Sandor could not fault her for. 

“There are two longhouses for your warriors, the others will have to set up camp inside the walls of the village. They must help with the fishing, and harvest. They need to work. Your warriors need to be ready to train tomorrow.” It took her a moment to process what he had said, and in that time he studied Tormund’s face. He was in love and that both put Sandor at ease and made him weary.

“Thank you,” she said somewhat breathless

“That handsome man over there will show you where you can lay your things. He’ll even warm your bed if you let him,” Sandor received a punch in the shoulder from his ginger friend at that and a rather confused look from the woman in front of him. He would let them sort their own shit and try his best to stay out of any kind of lovers' squabbles.

“Speaking of beds to warm,” Sandor stood from the table, turning his head to his bedroom. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep next to his English girl. 

Brienne was quick to grab his wrist, giving Sandor cause to stare at her as if she’d done the worst kind of assault on his person. “Go easy on her,” she said with a measured firmness. “She’s so young and surely frightened. She does not know our ways.”

Sandor’s eyes went from his wrist to her eyes, “Don’t tell me what to do with my women, and I won’t tell you what to do with yours.” The Viking was not one to mince his words, it would be something this woman would have to get used to.

Red hot anger flushed in Brienne’s cheeks, making Sandor appreciate her protection of those weaker than herself. Little did this woman know that Sansa was neither weak, nor frightened. She was his even from before the time she was born. But, as with every exchange, he saw it as an opportunity in the warrior’s protective nature. “If it bothers you so much, then have her train with your women. She should learn to defend herself against others. In that way she will not outlive her usefulness once I’ve had my fill of her cunt.”

There was a duality in his words. Sandor cared little if he came off as a rat bastard, he knew it would galvanize the Shield Maiden to be her best self. She would train Sansa purely out of spite to be an amazing warrior, and that was what he wanted. Lies and misdirections on his part were merely part and parcel of keeping her safe. 

Without a word Sandor made his way back to the bedroom. His beloved thrall was packed under a hill of brown and black fur, her red hair starkly contrasting with it. She was so peaceful, and he was so tired there was no chance he would disturb her with his baser needs. Both of them had had a rough voyage and it seemed his troubles were only beginning.  _ So much for enjoying a settled winter home life,  _ he thought with a hint of sarcasm. 

The warrior removed his clothing with ease, placing his boots in the corner and leaving his pants where they had fallen on the floor. The very thought of feeling her naked skin against his for the first time made him half hard, the tip of his cock peeking out from the protection of his foreskin. He used his breath to warm his hands, then slid under the furs to join her without a second thought. Sansa mumbled a bit of nonsense in her half sleep, barely noticing how he slipped one arm under her neck and used the other one to bring his hips flush with her bum. Her body was tiny compared to his own, delicate but strong. Her skin was soft and warm to the touch. It was hard for Sandor to imagine that they could even be the same species, as they seemed to share so little in common physically. Yet, while her scent entered his nostrils and his cock stretched itself toward the seductive warmth between her legs, the Viking knew they were meant to be together. By this point he was so used to unrequited erections on their return voyage, the mere skin contact of his manhood settling against the cleft of her ass was almost enough to push him over the edge. Almost.

As they often did, the fates seemed to conspire against Sandor’s more carnal intentions, focusing him on the political disaster that was about to unfold before him. On the one hand he would need to prepare for what was to come, on the other confirm what Brienne had told him. His mother’s ring recovered during a clandestine encounter with his madman of a brother was surely convincing. But he would need more. Sandor dreaded the thought of what war with Gregor would mean, yet knew it was inevitable. Their fates were made to collide, neither one could truly live while the other drew breath. The timing, however, threw his plans into chaos.

Soothsayers were known for their faulty prophecies, Sandor had to remind himself of this fact. His dreams had led him to those who would claim to commune with the gods directly. Always, no matter who he went to, they would always say the same. That Sandor would find a woman that would both change his life and the direction of his people forever. War with Gregor would mean either he or his brother would die.  _ Will I be able to best the monster from my childhood? That is what the implications of the soothsayers mean after all. That I am to live a long life with this woman. _

His heart thumped hard in his chest at the thought of questioning what the gods had in store for him, hanging on to words spoken to him in a dimly lit hut by a blind, deformed old man.  _ She is the next step in my life, our love worthy of a saga. She will bear me many sons and one beautiful daughter. That is what I was told over and over again. That is what I shall choose to believe.  _


	7. No God in Sight / Nei goð inn sit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa awakens to a new life in a far away land. But how she will navigate this new reality is anybody's guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to say, at the very least, that I didn't wait a month to publish! I'm just frustrated because I want to publish more!!! Let's see what the stars and writing gods have in store--hopefully more time to bang out chapters.
> 
> With that said, Redbirdblackdog has been a stedfast picset and plot hole ally and I can't thank her enough for supporting me! Islandida is amazing in her Swedish language edits and her continued positive encouragement for me to keep going on this crazy viking journey. You are both wonderful!
> 
> Translations at the end of the chapter ;-)

# 

# Chapter 7: No God in Sight / Nei goð inn sit

_Sansa had made her way to the top of a grassy cliff overlooking the sea. She breathed in the scents of heather and salt, admiring the natural beauty of the scenery before her. Her clothing was not her own. The young woman wore tight trousers with boots to her knees, a simple tunic and furlined jerkin. This should have been for a boy, yet the flare of her hips and the swell of her breasts were perfectly accounted for in the stitching._

_“It’s beautiful here,” a voice from behind her said. Sansa knew this voice, it had haunted her dreams for so long now there was no way to forget it._

_“How is it I can never look upon your face?” She asked, no longer interested in being polite._

_These games of cat and mouse with the raven had plagued her dreams, robbed her of sleep, and made her feel things she could not describe. Sansa wanted answers from this dark-winged, one-eyed beast but knew she would have to be smart to get them. She could not turn her head, so she kept her eyes trained out over the sea waiting for him to reply._

_There was a cackling consistent with a bird of that kind before it spoke, “Because you are afraid, my child.”_

_A gentle breeze moved her long hair about her shoulders, “I’m not afraid.”_

_She nearly spat the words out. The very thought that it was her problem angered the farm girl. For it was the raven who was her harasser, the one who toyed with her constantly. If she could have the good fortune to catch him and gauge his other eye out, it would bring her great relief._

_This time instead of a cackle, it was a man’s laughter. Deep and strong, it erupted from the raven’s beak, “Oh but you are. To look upon me would mean to accept that your god will not come for you here. To look upon me gives me claim, it gives Sandor claim.”_

_Sansa’s breath hitched at the mention of the Viking’s name. She had daydreamed many times about what her husband would look like and what kind of man he would be. A warrior of his strength and calibre had never come to mind. A simple farmer would have sufficed. Somebody who knew war only from the tales of others, not one with such a brutality in him. Not one like Sandor. And yet, no matter how hard she tried to deny it, a pagen from a far away land had infected her mind, and in so doing, crept into her soul._

_“Why did he steal me?” She asked, knowing the raven always spoke in riddles. “He could have laid claim to me there, on the grass. Yet he saw it fit to take me away from my family, from everything I knew.”_

_“That, my child, is a long story. One that starts before you were born. Come closer to me and I’ll tell you…” The raven was tempting her, begging her to abandon her identity in favor of theirs._

_To become one of them made her heart sink. Their ways were against everything she was raised to know and believe. Though forged in flesh and bone like she was, the way they lived, the manner in which they spoke was foreign and strange to her._

_‘There is no god as I know him here,’ she thought. ‘There is no god in sight.’ Sansa was convinced she would never find a place amongst the Northmen. Though tall and slender, she had no tolerance for the cold. If their summer already raised the hairs on her arms with its chill, then she didn’t dare consider what their winter would do to her._

_The mischievous bird continued despite her silence, “It is only natural that all the children of Odin reunite to take their rightful places in the world. So it should be no surprise that the youngest Son of Clegane is so drawn to you.”_

_Odin was one of their gods, she knew this from talking to the raven in her dreams. Yet she did not understand. “I am not one of you. I am no Northman, nor a child of a heretic god.”_

_“Don’t be so sure,” the bird hissed, fluttering its wings and coming closer to her. When he spoke again, his voice was taunting, teasing. “Red hair, so rare in England. Did you ever see another like you?”_

_Sansa thought back as long and far as she could. “No, only the one known as Tormund has hair like mine.” She felt her stomach fall between her knees at the very idea. Even then, his was red that went more blonde, it was not such a deep auburn as her own hair._

_“Yes,” the raven whispered in her ear, its claws digging into her shoulder. “Your eyes are the color of ice that never melts, the color of water so cold it could kill a man within moments.”_

_She turned her face away from the beast, for she wanted to hear no more. The raven was a liar, and yet he had never lied to her._

_“Tell me, child,” there was a pause, an eerie long one, “did you know your mother?”_

_Sansa swallowed deep, “Of course I knew my mother.” She had died in childbed when Sansa was very young, but she still had some faded memories of her red-headed, blue eyed woman who had raised her._

_“Did you really know her?” The raven knew something she didn’t and it was dangling this knowledge over her head._

_“Did you?” She asked, afraid at what his answer would be._

_The bird growled in her ear. It was the satisfied kind of growl a predator makes when it has its prey bleeding and in its mouth. “She was not one for priests. She despised any man telling her what to do. She...”_

_Sansa would hear no ore from the bird. She willed herself awake, cutting off the raven and forcing her dream to fade away._

The farm girl’s eyes opened and she took a moment to get her bearings. The room was so different from the night before, the feather bed she was in much bigger than Sansa had imagined. 

_His bed, his room._

The warmth of the furs protected her from the slight chill in the air. She reached out a hand, finding only an indentation in the mattress where Sandor had been. It was long cold. Sansa could not say how long she had been sleeping, only that daylight made its way through the gaps in the wooden house, allowing her to see the room better than the night before. Dust wandered in the thin stripes of light, but did not blur her vision as the room and its contents came into view. 

The space was neat, well kept, and adorned with riches Sansa had never seen before. The bed should have been her first indication that this man was wealthier than he appeared. Feather beds were for nobles and kings, not for girls like her. At home, she was happy to have some straw and blankets to bed down for the night, a crude lattice of wood kept her above the floor. Here a large headboard carved out of a single piece of wood towered over her. She had never seen such work before, but knew whoever had made it was skilled. 

Sitting up, Sansa pulled a dark fur to her breasts not knowing who else was in the house and what their intentions were. It was soft, clean, and one of many Sansa’s free hand ran over. She noted the various animal skins with different thicknesses, colors, and softness. They were exquisite, some made of animals she did not know. 

_Does he hunt these himself? Are they gifts?_

Her eyes scanned the room in front of her. Various odd weapons hung on the walls, as if to be displayed. Far from ceremonial they appeared unrusted and cared for. Some had sharp ends, others were heavier and more blunted. All of them looked deadly, particularly if you considered who they belonged to. The Viking seemed to enjoy decorating his private room with implements of war and violence, while keeping his bed soft, warm, and inviting. 

_If I am here, then he must have no wife._ This realization eased Sansa’s mind. It did not mean she wasn’t his slave, but at least she would not have to navigate the intricacies of being a second or third woman to him. 

The room had no door. Instead a lattice wall with a thin, somewhat translucent curtain separated it from the larger part of the longhouse. Sansa did what she could to peer through the curtain but found it difficult to see what was going on. There was the slight murmur of women’s voices, something was being prepared in the kitchen for the smell of cooking food permeated the air. More than that she could not tell from the bed. 

The young girl from the night before entered the room. It seemed she’d been checking in, waiting for Sansa to awaken. There was ash on her face and she wore an apron covered in what could have been blood from working with meat. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white. Never having seen hair that color Sansa took a moment to admire it. The girl pointed to a wash basin and pitcher situated on a simple wooden chair in the room. Some clothes slung over the back of the chair making it clear that she was supposed to wash and dress herself. 

Nodding, Sansa slowly made an effort to extract herself from the protection of the furs. Her skin pricked the moment she left them, making her shiver despite her best efforts to the contrary. Pouring the water from the pitcher into the basin, Sansa ran it over her hand and yelped. It was like ice, the coldest water she had ever felt. Swallowing hard she soaked the waiting rag with water and quickly washed her face. As she moved down her neck and to her chest her teeth began to chatter. Dipping the rag in the water again, Sansa continued to wash the dirt and grit from her body. It was torturous, but she didn’t want to show weakness or fear. Not to Sandor, not to this girl, not to anybody.

Moving on she cleaned delicately between her legs, and even within her lower folds, making sure there were no remnants of her moon blood there. His unusual attention to her cycle provided an added motivation to freshen herself up. Finally, after much deliberation and steading of her nerves, the farm girl dunked her hair in the cold water, washing it with her fingers as quickly as she could before whipping it out of the water and wrapping a dingy towel around it. 

Her fingers were almost blue and they shook while she reached for the clothing. What she found on the back of the chair was very different from what she was used to wearing. A pair of boy’s trousers, which laced in the front, fit her better than she would have imagined. They were loose in the thighs but hugged her bum and calves in a way that made it seem they were made more for a woman’s rounded form rather than a boy’s boxy one. A raw spun grey tunic came next, the wool thicker than she was used to. Sansa was thankful for that, knowing she would need every bit of warmth afforded to her. The tunic fit her in the arms well, the sleeves ending at the wrists like you would imagine, but being overly loose on her tiny frame. 

Sansa tucked in the bottom of the tunic then pulled a leather, furlined jerkin over top of it. It fit her like a glove, tight around the chest and waist to give her support the warm fur insulating her from the cold. It was quite beautiful, and gave her cause to wonder how much work had gone into making such a beautiful piece. The fur lining came over the collar, its light color matching her red hair well. 

As she was pulling her boots on, the girl came back into the room and, without a word, went to braid her hair. It was a nice gesture, even if her fingers pulled the hair on Sansa’s head so tight that she yelped once or twice in pain. Her tender head and muted groans only made the girl smile in amusement. _She is his slave,_ Sansa realized, _and yet this girl seems fine and in good health._

The night before this girl had been hushed with a stone like expression. Now, she hummed to herself gently while arranging Sansa’s hair in the Viking manner. Two braids on each side of Sansa’s head kept her hair back and out of her face. A quick twist of the top of her head was secured with some kind of metal device which seemed to finish the look.

_I must blend in with them now_ , Sansa thought, bringing her back to her dream from before. 

The raven had thrown everything into chaos, made her question what she was sure she already knew, particularly her origins. And for what? She could not understand his motivations. She was here wasn’t she? Away from her family, from the land she had grown up in. _What more does he want? Am I not his already?_

Unable to consider this question, Sansa was quickly brought into the huge main area of the longhouse, where many long tables and benches stood. It was clear now that this was a kind of communal house, a place where those in the village came to celebrate or deliberate. A small dias with a big chair covered in animal bones and fur confirmed the second part of her thought. In some ways it was not so different from her own village, where the men of the community would meet in a barn to discuss what they would grow and settle family squabbles amongst the community elders. Here, it was obvious that one man made those decisions. 

_Is Sandor their king?_ She wondered, trying to remember from the night before how big the town was. They had walked a long while from the boat to this house, but even then she could not really know. The chair on the dias drew her eye, and was clearly big enough for the Viking to fit in. 

The girl seated Sansa at one of the tables, then put a bowl of cracked wheat gruel with a spoon in front of her. There was little flavor to it, but at the very least it was warm and she was happy for a proper meal served on dry land. She ate it quickly, enjoying the sensation of warming up with both the food in her belly and the large hearth alight in the longhouse. 

After she was done eating, Sansa thanked the girl. She was not sure it did much, but they exchanged smiles and that seemed to suffice. She was led out from the darkness of the longhouse and into the bright light of the day. The town, so silent yesterday, was bustling. Sansa tried not to look around like she didn’t fit in, but it was so very different from what she was used to. Her farming community was made up of a handful of families, living far apart from one another but building a sense of community all the same. It was a quiet life, one lived away from towns and outposts. This place was considerably more populated than where she grew up. Traders, craftsmen, people of all kinds crammed between the wooden structures. Some had carts, some had boxes, some had animal parts -- all doing what they needed to do to survive. 

The sights and smells were so new, yet her mind returned to him. _And now where is she taking me? To see Sandor?_ Sansa had to admit she felt lost without him. Their time together had been so intense, Sansa had become bonded with her captor, more bonded than she thought possible.

They passed the last wooden structures of the town, passing some tents which bordered on a large open field. It was there that Sansa stopped cold in her tracks. Blinking several times she inhaled deeply so as to keep her knees from buckling. It was this very field, surrounded by huge beautiful evergreens with mountains in the distance, that had haunted her dreams. 

_They will go to Valhalla,_ Sansa repeated to herself. The words and feelings from this particular dream still very present in her mind. The desire for vengeance bubbled up in her gut unbid. She blinked again. There was no death, there was no destruction. Here there was life, men and women training with the bow and the blade. Instead of dead bodies, there were bodies of straw littering the large green field. It took the farm girl a moment to really understand what she saw there, and to take note of the depth to which this culture celebrated war. 

_Their women train as well,_ this very thought filled Sansa with so many conflicting emotions. Her mind returned to when she had first laid eyes on Sandor, to that moment they had squared off outside of her tiny hovel. _He enjoyed it, perhaps even respected it._

Sansa then thought about their closeness on the boat, and how he had known the right things to do as she bled. The relationships between men and women were different here, and it was difficult to even consider what that meant for her. In England women would have never been taught to defend themselves, much less wield a blade in war. It seemed silly to Sansa all of the sudden not to give the possibility to fight to the other half of the village. 

_t would have helped us against their raid if all the women of my town had fought._

The girl urged her to move on, gripping Sansa by the hand and pulling her through the mass of swinging swords and kicked up dirt. It was not long before she stopped in front of a tall, muscular woman, wearing leather armor similar to what she had seen Sandor’s crew wear. 

The woman eyed her a moment. “Du är äntligen här, flicka,” she said, sword strapped to her side, hands on her hips. “Du ser inte ut som mycket, men låt oss se.”

Sansa recognized that voice instantly, it was the woman with which Sandor had spoken the night before. There had been tension between them, something that had made Sandor’s body taut and his tone mocking. She observed the woman’s face with great interest, trying to understand what she could. Her expression was not unfriendly. Pale skin pulled across rounded features with a strong jaw. This woman was no beauty and yet, Sansa could tell this mattered little her. While Sansa had been brought up to dream of a husband, placing importance on being a good wife and mother, the warrior before her had not been raised with such a mindset. She had aspired to something different, something brave that Sansa would have never considered before this experience. 

_We can be warriors too. Protect ourselves and others._

There was, however, a seriousness and a sadness behind this tall woman’s eyes. Sansa had no way of knowing what it was, or how it had gotten there, but she could tell. However, there was little time to consider that topic. She followed the female warrior over to a free patch of grass and was handed a wooden sword. 

Of all the things for a slave to do, learning how to use a weapon had not figured prominently into Sansa’s ideas. They were an odd people, these Northmen. Their women were strong, bold, and from what she could see in the training yard, fearless. Taking a wooden sword of her own, the huge blond woman approached Sansa. They sized one another up. There should have been something intimidating about how the Viking woman towered over her, yet Sansa could not bring herself to be afraid. For she too was fearless. 

The warrior’s movements were slow at first, trying to ensure that Sansa could follow what she was doing. One might have thought it was their language barrier, but Sansa knew better. These people were not much or talking--certainly not when they were training for battle at least.The young farm girl found herself following along. Their wooden swords smacked against one another, in a steady rhythm. The Viking woman quickening her advances, Sansa blocking them from whichever direction they came. It was hard work, and yet it felt exciting, got her blood pumping and her mind racing. 

Once the huge woman seemed satisfied with Sansa’s reflexes and basic ability, she made it clear through hand signals that Sansa should attack her in an overhead swing. As Sansa advanced on the woman, she blocked, moved Sansa’s sword to the side and counter attacked. The motions were slow, distinct, and done with the purpose of showing Sansa the technique. The Viking woman showed her again, using the momentum of the red-head’s sword to both push her weapon out of the way and to pull her off balance. It was a slowed down version of something she had already witnessed in real life. During the battle on the English shore Sandor, and many of his men, had used the same as they engaged their enemy. It could be deadly with a real sword, devastating if you knew what to aim for. 

As easy as the Northmen had made it look, Sansa found herself taking some time to put it into practice. Blocking was one thing, but redirecting her weight in order to both step out of the way but still advance for a counterattack proved difficult. Yett she would not let herself be disheartened, nor would she let this woman best her if she could help it. With time, awkward, disjointed movements became smooth, more comfortable ones. 

_Sidestep, redirection, foot forward and strike._ These were the words Sansa repeated to herself whilst locked in mock battle. 

Sweat had begun to cloud her vision when her opponent singaled they take a break. Sansa had no concept of how much time had passed, the cloud cover shielded the position of the sun from her eyes. But it had been a while, the flush of the Viking woman’s cheeks indicating they had both put forth a good effort. 

“Du klarar dig bra för en bondflicka. Vi kommer kunna göra krigare av dig ännu.” The woman told her, a smile gently spreading on her face. “Asha!” she called out to a passing woman of a more normal height. Her hair was dark and cut short, almost in a boyish type fashion. 

The blonde woman spoke to the one she called over. “Hon är starkare än hon ser ut och är nästintill orädd. Du kommer att kunna lära henne mycket.”

This younger woman had sparkling eyes, with that kind of look that made Sansa wonder what she was going to do next. Mischievous was the first word that came to mind, and spunky. While the taller woman might have been somber and focused, this one seemed just on the edge of wild. Asha looked Sansa up and down a moment and raised an eyebrow. Something silent passed between the two Viking women before Asha took Sansa by the arm and led her away. 

After they found a little patch of grass to call their own, Asha and Sansa began to train. They started with wooden swords, similar to what Sansa had done before. The cheeky grin and vocal encouragement from her partner told Sansa she was doing well. They would always start striking in a regimented fashion, then slowly digress into more unanticipated swings -- even wild blows -- before one of them caught the other with the side of their wooden weapon. First it was Sansa who let out a proper yelp when Asha struck her in the side. Surprised and angry, Sansa had fought back listening more to the little voice inside her than to any technique she was being shown. Their next round had Asha shaking her arm in pain. 

It was a healthy rivalry, Sansa could see that as they both exchanged grins and continued sparing. Asha was clearly more advanced than she was, but Sansa was quick to exploit any wrong footing or move, ending up in either a close call or the both of them falling on the floor in a heap. 

“Du klarar dig bra, liten. Men du blockerar är skit. På nytt!” Asha would tell her often, motioning they begin once more. 

Sansa could not say how long they trained, only that time flew by. It was in one of their breaks, as she took a skin of water and drank deeply did Sansa glimpse Sandor from afar. A man like that could not be missed, even among his own people who tended to be taller than her own. His hair was clean, worn long so that you could not see the tattooed monster that covered one side of his head. The clothing he wore was noticeably different from what she was used to seeing him in. Gone was his ratty tunic and leather armor from their journey. In its place a beautifully worked leather jerkin and dark blue tunic. A wide leather belt served to make his body look even bigger than before, a light cloak of wool pinned together with some large, shiny clasp drew her eye. 

_He looks like their leader more now than before. So richly dressed compared to the farmers and fishmongers._ These thoughts made Sansa even more curious about the man who had stolen her. 

Her eyes followed him as he led a huge ox past the wooden fortifications. Sandor did not see her, or at least they didn’t make eye contact. He was speaking with some men, dressed in long robes. They were different from the others, their skin covered in a kind of chalky dust, their eyes, lips and ears darkened with something black that could have been soot. While most men she had seen here and around the village had full heads of long hair and beards, these men were shaven, and they gave Sansa a chill just looking at them. 

For a moment Sansa wasn’t sure what she had been hoping for as she peered off into the distance. Her eyes followed Sandor until he could no longer be seen. _Do I want him to wave at me? Come and hold me in his arms?_ For as silly as it sounded when she thought of it this way, it didn’t cover her disappointment with the fact that he hadn’t acknowledged her at all. _I am a slave, perhaps he will begin to treat me as such now that everyone in his village can see that._

With a heavy sigh Sansa turned back to her sparring partner. Asha was eyeing her suspiciously, as if she could read Sansa’s forlorn thoughts and found them amusing. With little sympathy for Sansa’s emotional situation, Asha started them off again. It was with a renewed vigor that they continued their sword play. It was not until the sun began to wane behind the clouds, that they stopped for the day. 

There was little doubt in her mind how sore her body would be the next morning. While working on a farm had been hard, learning their fighting ways was even harder. It wasn’t just mindlessly plowing fields where you could rest under a tree in the heat of the day. There was the constant need to think, react, and move. Sansa was tired, and knew sleep would come quickly to her tonight. 

“Kom, lilla. Jag tar dig tillbaka till monsteret nu.” Asha’s voice had an edge to it that made Sansa uneasy. But she extended her hand, which was quite different than the other women. Sansa took it, and was quickly led through the crowded village. It seemed even more busy than in the morning, as if something big were going to happen. Some men had begun drinking ale and were already laughing and berating one another between two houses. The center of the town had transformed, with some heavy wooden tables and torches filling the square. 

They made their way back to the longhouse where Sansa had started her day. Many things had happened since the morning. Its large common room was decorated with flowers and different greenery. The dias, where the large throne once stood, now had a long table with some chairs on one side, facing in toward the bigger room. _Surely they will feast tonight,_ she thought. Sansa did not see Lisandre, but knew she’d been instrumental in transforming this into a feast hall. 

Asha walked her to the threshold of Sandor’s room. She placed her hand on Sansa’s shoulder as if she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead they did not exchange words at all, she merely turned around and left quickly disappearing through the longhouse and into the crowd outside. 

Sansa glanced around the room, but Sandor wasn’t there. She found herself disappointed by his absence, wondering why he had brought her all this way just to abandon her now. She sighed, not able to understand everything she was feeling. Nor wanting to go further down the path of understanding what it could mean.

Much like this morning, Lisandre brought in a pitcher and water basin for Sansa to bathe with. She certainly needed it considering the dirt and the sweat she had kicked up during training. Sansa thanked her and began to wash herself with the same cold water as in the morning. The only consolation this time was that she knew what to expect. As quickly and efficiently as she could Sansa ran a rag over her skin and combed the dirt out of her hair. The clothing laid out for her this time was more what she was used to, a shift with a heavy wool dress. 

Moving quickly Sansa brought the shift over her head and brought the light blue dress over that. The first thing she noticed was how low cut the top was, dipping much deeper into her cleavage than she was accustomed to. It was difficult to move the shift in such a way that it kept a barrier between her skin and the itchy wool but didn’t puff out of the dress all the same. The laces in the back of the dress didn’t help matters much, surely she would have to get somebody to help her. 

She fidgeted with the garments, eyes downcast as she attempted to pull everything into the right place. It was then that she felt a pair of huge hands touched her back, searching for the laces of her dress. Sansa yelped in surprise whirling around with a raised fist and a scream on her lips.

Sandor rarely smiled, but her actions were certainly a source of amusement to him. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, noticing only now that there was a small door in the rear of the room where he had entered from. “Jag har inget gjort men ändå gör du dig redo att slå,” he chuckled. 

Sansa watched him eye her up and down, then take a step closer, his large palm coming to the side of her face. “Jag föredrar dig i byxor. Att se dig från avstånd träna med dina långa ben och otroliga ända. Jag kunde nästan inte hålla mig tillbaka,” his eyes bored into her own.

A blush crept into Sansa’s cheeks under the weight of his gaze. His eyes said so many things that they did not have to speak the same language for her to understand what he was thinking. The Viking often looked at her this way. Now that she thought of it, the first time they had met this had been the expression on his face. Feral. His flint eyes held a thirst for her that would not be quenched easily--or gently. The fingertips of Sandor’s other hand stroked her hip, igniting an unfamiliar and powerful feeling in her loins.

It was not for an unmarried woman in her culture to know what happened in the marriage bed, yet she had the feeling that, if their women were as free as their men, she might be the only one in this village who did not know. There was a sense of liberation that welled up inside of her, thinking about what it might be like to live with this man, to do something more than farm. _To lie with him, to feel his affections..._

“Jag ska ha dig ikväll,” Sandor whispered, taking her chin between his rough thumb and forefinger. He made her look him in the eye, making her blush even more. “Du kommer inte förneka mig dig.” He was commanding her to do something, giving her an order that she could not interpret. 

As if reading her thoughts, the Viking moved her chin to an angle and leaned in for a kiss. There was no resistance from her body or her lips, and Sansa found a certain relief in that. Part of her was dead set on fighting against him, pushing him away at every chance. Yet the other side of her, the more practical one, understood that giving into him would secure her survival. They were bonded in the most unusual of ways. As captor and captive, as killers, a pair huddling for warmth in the night. Deep down Sansa knew Sandor was her world now. Instead of closing her opportunities down, extinguishing them as one would a flame, this warrior was broadening them. 

_There are worse fates,_ she thought, _and worse men in this world._

Sansa returned his kiss for the first time, her palms resting softly on his leather jerkin. Even through the thick garment she could still feel his strength. Hard muscle under warm layers of clothing brought her calm. Her lips playfully moved over his, excited to be so sought after by such a man. His tongue entered her mouth, leaving no doubt as to his intentions. Sandor’s hands moved quickly to bring her even closer, wrapping around her body so that they were flush. He was hungry, wanting, and lustful. All things her priest had said men should not be, and yet, Sansa could find no fault in it. There had been many opportunities for him to take her against her will, and he had shunned them all. It was as if he had waited until she had returned his affections. This made him more man than beast, in her eyes. 

_They are not as barbaric as the priest claims,_ Sansa thought _,_ pressing herself further into his lips. _If anything he is honorable in his own way._

Sandor’s voice cracked slightly when he pulled back his head, “Eller så kan jag ta dig nu om det är vad du önskar?”

Hooded slate eyes made her understand what words could not. Sansa knew what he would do now. Even if she had little idea of what really happened next, there was no doubt Sandor would have his way with her. The Viking’s hands moved in a well practiced motion, lifting her skirt over her hips and bunching it up between their bodies. She gasped, the feeling of his rough hands undoing the laces of his trousers against her belly was both frightening and exciting. 

His heady scent flooded her nostrils and she leaned into his body even more. Over the many days they had already spent together, Sansa had felt his erection often in the dark of the night. Their bodies pressed tightly, nearly inseparable as they slept. But never had she felt his manhood against her bare skin like she did now. There was a surprising weight to it as it rested on her belly. She was surprised by how warm, smooth, and large it was. The very thought she would be taken by him made her loins throb and her body react in ways she had never known. The Viking used both of his hands to grip either side of her bum, his fingers pressing possessively into her skin. Then he bent his knees and began to rub their most intimate parts together. 

“En klänning kanske inte är så dum ändå,” he teased in her ear, making the hairs on her neck stand up in excitement.

His breathing intensified, as his thick, strong manhood stimulated her. There was no denying how much her body wanted him. Sansa could feel wetness running down her inner thighs, lubricating the head and shaft of his manhood. It slipped easily between them, forcing her to grip his massive shoulders in order to stay on her feet. The more he persisted, grunting in her ear and guiding her hips over him, the wetter she became. All she knew was that it was a sign of her arousal, a measure with which to judge her desire for him. 

And the Viking was pleased with it. She gasped, which made him, in turn, growl into her ear. Sandor’s deep baritone sent vibrations through her entire body.His breath hitched every time he slipped over her swollen pussy lips and thrust upward. Sandor’s warm breath flowed over her clavicle. A slight nip of her neck made Sansa dip her head backward to allow him access to her neck. She could feel him grin against her skin, the jagged scarring of his face heightening her sensitivity. 

Then his right hand slipped to her outer thigh, pulling her knee over his hip. She could barely stand, having to roll up on her toes to keep in contact with him. He lifted her easily with his left arm, their lips maintaining a perfect sealed kiss. The Viking was not concerned about dropping her on the floor. If anything she seemed light as air to him. He was building himself into a ferver, nipping her chin and maneuvering her such that his cock was positioned at her entrance. Sansa understood better now what her wetness was for, it would help him slide into her with ease. If she could even manage to take him inside of her, it would be the only way. He leaned in to kiss her again. 

“Herre,” a voice came from the side of them. Sansa felt him stop, twitch irritatedly, then turn his head slowly. It was Lisandre, who seemed ever present throughout the house.

Sandor turned to her and she looked at the floor, slightly wilted by his aggressive look and surely embarrassed having caught them in such a moment. Nonetheless she continued what she was going to say, “Skymningen faller och du bör ej bli sen.” 

A resigned exhale escaped the massive Viking’s lips. Reluctantly Sandor nodded. “Klä henne,” he said to Lisandre, slowly putting Sansa’s feet back on the floor. “Sansa ska tjäna mig och endast mig inatt.” The girl nodded her understanding and scampered out of the room. 

“Vi kommer avsluta det här senare’ä,” he grinned, two idol fingers tracing a line up her thigh, mingling with the wetness there. He was not soft yet, their bodies still melded together from their intimate embrace.

Then he laced himself up quickly and helped her right her skirts. Sansa could feel a passion burning between them, one that had not been totally realized on her side until now. The Viking’s eyes smouldered, as they often did for her when they were alone together. They locked glances for a long moment, then he was gone. Disappearing through the curtain and into the dim light of the longhouse. Sansa had never felt so suddenly alone. His warmth, his touch left such a huge void that she stood there a moment trying to understand what was happening. She touched her lips, still sensitive from the whiskers of his beard, she squeezed her thighs together, slick from his careful motions. She thought back to the raven, to what he had said to her that night. 

_Claim,_ she thought. _Once he claims me I can never go back_ , then she shook her head. _Would I want to go back even if I could?_

Sansa wasn’t sure. There had been nothing for her at home, other than a small farm and the support of her father and brother. Here she could reinvent herself, make a change. _That would mean embracing their ways, their gods, and their…._

The girl came back and helped her to tie the dress. Sansa was unused to and certainly did not feel deserving of having somebody merely attend to her. Unable to bear the silence between them the English girl did what she could to communicate. 

“Sansa,” she placed her own hand on her chest, taking a page out of Sandor’s book. Then pointed to the girl. “You?”

The girl eyed her suspiciously, then said her name. “Lisandre,” she said. Sansa could barely pronounce it, to the point the girl giggled at her attempt. 

“Lisandre,” Sansa smiled after a few attempts, happy they could at least be friends. 

“Kom,” the girl said, taking her hand. “Vi kommer försent till ceremonin och Gudarna kommer bli arga.”

Sansa breathed deeply, and allowed herself to be taken through the house into the center of the village. A great number of people were gathered, as if expecting something to happen. When nobody looked at her strangely or even noticed she was different, Sansa relaxed. She had no idea what would happen next, only that it would be very different from the small town festivals the priest of her village hosted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne: “Du är äntligen här, flicka,” she said, sword strapped to her side, hands on her hips. “Du ser inte ut som mycket, men låt oss se.” = "You're finally here, girl." ... "You don't look like much, but let's see."
> 
> Brienne: "Du klarar dig bra för en bondflicka. Vi kommer kunna göra krigare av dig ännu.” = "You do well for a farm girl. We’ll make a warrior out of you yet."
> 
> Brienne: “Hon är starkare än hon ser ut och är nästintill orädd. Du kommer att kunna lära henne mycket.” = "She’s stronger than she looks and has little fear. You’ll be able to teach her much."
> 
> Asha: “Du klarar dig bra, liten. Men du blockerar är skit. På nytt!” = "You do well, little one. But you’re blocking is shit. Again!"
> 
> Asha: "Kom, lilla. Jag tar dig tillbaka till monsteret nu." = "Come, little one. I'll take you back to the monster now."
> 
> Sandor: “Jag har inget gjort men ändå gör du dig redo att slå,” he chuckled. = "I've done nothing yet and already you move to strike."
> 
> Sandor: “Jag föredrar dig i byxor. Att se dig från avstånd träna med dina långa ben och otroliga ända. Jag kunde nästan inte hålla mig tillbaka,” his eyes bored into her own. = "I prefer you in trousers. Watching you train from afar with your long legs and amazing ass, I almost could not contain myself."
> 
> Sandor: “Jag ska ha dig ikväll,” Sandor whispered, taking her chin between his rough thumb and forefinger. He made her look him in the eye, making her blush even more. “Du kommer inte förneka mig dig.” = "I will have you tonight," .... "You will not deny me."
> 
> Sandor: “Eller så kan jag ta dig nu om det är vad du önskar?” = "Or I can take you now if that is what you wish?"
> 
> Sandor: “En klänning kanske inte är så dum ändå,” he teased in her ear, making the hairs on her neck stand up in excitement. = "Maybe that dress is not so bad."
> 
> Lisandre: “Skymningen faller och du bör ej bli sen.” = "Dusk is falling and you should not be late."
> 
> Sandor to Lisandre: “Klä henne,” he said to Lisandre, slowly putting Sansa’s feet back on the floor. “Sansa ska tjäna mig och endast mig inatt.” = "Get her dressed," ... "Sansa is to serve me and only me tonight."
> 
> Sandor: “Vi kommer avsluta det här senare’ä,” he grinned, two idol fingers tracing a line up her thigh, mingling with the wetness there. = "We'll finish this later."
> 
> Lisandre to Sansa: “Kom,” the girl said, taking her hand. “Vi kommer försent till ceremonin och Gudarna kommer bli arga.”  
> = "Come"..."we'll be late for the ceremony and the gods will be angry."


	8. Ór Blood, Betrayal, ok Bonding / Of Blood, Betrayal, and Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of a ritual feast, Sandor receives new information that throws his plans into further chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are coming slowly but surely. A HUGE HUGE thanks for Redbirdblackdog for reading this one and really pushing me to make it better. Your insight is always appreciated. 
> 
> She also did the picsets, which again are so beautiful! I'm unworthy !!! :-)
> 
> There's only one additional note here:  
> Hothgothi -- a form a pagan priests.

# 

#  Chapter 8: Ór Blood, Betrayal, ok Bonding / Of Blood, Betrayal, and Bonding

The rhythmic beat of the drums pounded in unison with Sandor’s heart. It was a calm, continuous thumping of wood against stretched animal skins. One that put you in touch, not just with yourself, but with the world around you. Those who could chant, did. This gave the twilight an ethereal feel. That was the point after all, to create a place for the gods here on earth. To invite them to come witness a great sacrifice and to feast in their honor. Sandor stood in the center of his village, observing all those in attendance. His boots and leather trousers were clean. He wore a white tunic synched at this waist by a large leather belt, his sword belt over that. The nights had already begun to hint at winter, the chill in the air had brought many to wear cloaks of wool or fur. But not him. He had shed his cloak, in favor of taking this opportunity to show everybody that he was strong, powerful, and most importantly, one with the gods. 

Inhaling deeply, Sandor Son of Clegane took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing the drums and the voices to bring him closer to the gods. Their ritual tonight would be one of thanks and unity. He and his band of raiders had, once again, survived the rough seas that separated their homeland from England. They had triumphed in battle against superior weapons, and returned home with riches far beyond that of other clans. The Viking knew that life was good, for now anyway. He also knew that things could change in an instant. Exhaling Sandor reflected on his past, allowing his mind to follow a path of its own making. For all the gods had done to him in his childhood, they seemed to be making up for it in his adulthood -- “seemed to be” being the key point. The Viking did not want to take a chance when it came to praising and pleasing them, nor would he cheat them of what they truly craved. 

_ Blood,  _ he told himself.  _ A son of Odin should always be humble, because it is through this humbleness we find strength in our hour of need. We sacrifice blood for blood, a life for a life.  _

Sandor’s breathing changed as he began to commune with the gods. This ritual would differ slightly from the usual. While he would not leave out the gods they praised most in this region, Odin and Tyr, the giant ox which stood before him was not for them--it was for Frejya. This would raise more than a few eyebrows amongst the Hofgothi, but that mattered little to Sandor. He knew in his heart of hearts what was right, and he would not be deterred from that path. 

Opening his eyes, Sandor took stock of those around him noticing that more people had crowded into the small village center. The torchlight bathed almost everyone in a red and gold flickering glow. Other than the chanting there was silence in the crowd, all gathered to pay tribute and give thanks. Flanking him in front of the crowd were those from their sacred temples, the Hofgothi. Several alters had been erected on short notice, atop them an animal. They would sacrifice many animals tonight, but it was for Sandor, as Jarl, to sacrifice the largest and most choice -- an ox. He’d chosen the biggest and strongest beast he could find, knowing the dangers that would come with slitting its throat in a manner that would please the gods most. It was only through this that he could truly show his devotion to them, and to show his people they had chosen a strong leader. 

Tormund, and some of their most loyal men, stood near the front of the crowd, while Brienne and some hand picked shield maidens could be made out not far behind them. Sandor’s eyes scanned the crowd again, until they finally fell on Sansa. Lisandre had done well to bring her up front so he could not only see his prize, but show her he was worthy of her affections. He had not forgotten his observation on the shore of her homeland. That taming a woman like this required not only great patience, but a great show of mental and physical strength. In his younger years he would not have understood this in the same way he did now. He chuckled to himself, admitting that the gods did know best when it came to matters of the heart.

Sansa’s eyes were wide, she was unsure of the things going on around her, but trying her best not to look scared. Her discomfort awoke a protective feeling in the Viking, one he knew would lead him to risk life and limb for her safety. The way the torchlight licked her skin, it almost looked like she was made of gold. He inhaled and exhaled again, his thoughts briefly turning to their encounter only moments before. 

_ She is nearly ready to accept me as her man. Tonight her moans will reach Freja in Valhalla, the sweetest song of praise I can think of.  _

The drumming stopped, and Sandor refocused his attention on the task at hand. He stood tall, removing a sharpened ceremonial dagger from his belt and holding it high for everybody to see. “Tonight, we praise you oh Freyja. Goddess of war, protector of the family. It is with your shield and your sword that we keep those we love safe and from harm.” 

Sandor could sense the mixed reaction of the people. Nobody would dispute the goddess’ importance, but few would have picked her as the one to praise first. No doubt Brienne was happy, her kind revered this goddess above even Tyr himself. Sandor waited a long time after his evocation, to see if any of the Hothgothi would raise their voice in protest. His uncomfortable silence dared them to go against his wishes, while he stood there with a dagger raised over his head. 

When silence prevailed, he continued. The ox was tied down with two ropes around its massive horns to spikes in the ground. That, by no means, meant it would not buck and thrash once it realized what was happening to it. Sandor knew he would have to be quick, holding the beast still and not missing the soft part of its neck with his dagger. 

Everybody watched intently. The air was thick with anticipation, children balanced on their parents’ shoulders in order to get a glimpse of what was about to happen. Sandor wrapped his arm around the neck of the large ox dropping his weight to get as much stability as possible. He wanted a quick and painless death for the animal, one that would see its blood pump out of its body and into a small troff of wood below them. If he didn’t spill a drop as the animal thrashed, then the sacrifice would be the highest of honors to the goddess. 

_ Guide my hand, as you have guided my life, dear goddess. As you will continue to guide it. Bless us with many children and with a happy home.  _

Without hesitation he plunged his dagger into the neck of the ox. It bellowed and thrashed, throwing its head back. Sandor was lucky to stay out of the way of its horns as one rope snapped under the creature’s immense strength. Squeezing its head with both of his large arms, Sandor wrestled it into place. His boots dug into the ground as he forced the creature’s head downward, the blood spurting out with the slowing pumping of its dying heart. It would only be a couple of moments until loss of blood would make the ox weaker. Dropping to one knee, Sandor felt the animal’s legs give way, felt its breathing still, and its life slowly leave its body. 

His white tunic was stained red with blood, but even then, not a drop of blood was spilled outside the troff. Sandor could hear the whispers in the crowd, but didn’t dare look up until finally the beast breathed its last. His chest heaved from the exertion as he righted himself, the crowd wide-eyed and in awe of what they had just seen. His eyes met Sansa’s and he knew he had claimed her. The goddess had heard his wish and granted it. Sandor was taken back to the beach in England, where he and his men had overcome great odds in that ambush. She’d looked at him in very much the same way she was now. There was a reverence for what he was doing, even if she did not understand it. 

_ Not yet, but you will understand soon enough,  _ he thought.

Turning back to the crowd, Sandor continued with the ritual. “We thank you Odin, Tyr, and Tor. For protecting us our travels to England, and for giving us the strength to fight against those who would seek to destroy us.” 

With that the priests sacrificed the pigs, one for each god. Then, for the goddesses of fate and dreams, they sacrificed several goats. Their blood drained down the altars and into waiting bowls. It would be with this blood, that they would seal their pact with the gods. Sandor took a bowl and dipped it into the trough of ox blood, still warm. With a twig, he and the Hothgothi made their way through the crowd giving everybody a smatter of it on their face. 

He was drawn to Sansa, standing there surrounded by others in his village. She stood out even amongst his own people, her hair the deepest shade of auburn and her beauty the thing of legends. Yet, what struck him most, was the fact that she was unwavering. There was no concern or fear in her eyes, more a curiosity for the ways of his people. Sandor had taken her far from her christian god, away from everything she had ever known. But there was no resentment there, there was a will to not just live, but thrive.

He flicked the ox blood on her face, then moved on. He had to remain solemn, so was the expectation of the ritual. Soon though, he would make good on their bond. Cement their destinies once and for all.

* * *

Taking his place in the Jarl’s longhouse Sandor sat in his big chair on the dias. To his left were Brienne and Asha, to his right his most trusted friend Tormund. The table in front of them was already filled with the most choice meats and vegetables from the harvest. It had been a good year, and sharing this bounty with new alliances was the best way to cement them. Sandor, and those on the dias, would eat facing the common room. This way they could watch, toast, and laugh along with their warriors and villagers. 

These feasts were never quiet affairs. The drinking had gotten well underway before anybody had piled into the long house. Sandor was pleased to have had a quick moment to change out of his blood soaked tunic in favor of a dark blue one with open lacing in the front. He’d opened it as far as he could, for the roaring hearths and the body heat within this boisterous room was already more than he could take. 

It was a lively scene of laughing and singing which unfolded before him. For the first time in a long time Sandor felt hopeful for the future. Not just with Sansa, but also for his isolated village. They had long been low on women in this area. Some would have said Sandor was a lucky man to have so many skilled warriors given the size of his jarldom and the terrain around it, but he knew better than any that without women his men would become harder to control. They needed stability, a reason to come back from a raid, and a way to use their pent up energy for something more useful -- like producing more young warriors. Sandor snorted at the idea of what the spring would hold. The winters were harsh, and life was unpredictable. The more people he had, the longer and more stable his rule would be.

Sandor drank deep and watched heavy flirtations from afar, pleased that he had made the right decision to allow Brienne and her people to stay. As with everything in this life, there were costs and benefits. You only had to hope you’d made the right choice, ensuring you gained more than you lost. In truth the Viking knew he had chosen to protect a renegade of sorts, a woman who was a strong leader and well liked by her followers -- even if those in power around her disapproved of the notion that the fairer sex would devote their lives to war.

Sitting back and eating a leg of lamb quietly, Sandor remembered a time when he was a boy of no more than eight or nine. His father and elder brother were gone on raids, to everybody’s great relief. In these summer months, his mother often kept women at the farm to help out but also to train them how to fight. It was an unusual sort of training camp for sure, but they lived in peace and always had enough food on the table. 

One day, as Sandor chopped wood, he saw a figure staggering across the open field. His house was the only one within a day’s walk, so he knew this person was certainly making their way to the farm. From a distance it was hard to make out if they were man or woman, young or old. All he knew was that they were not well. A walking stick was leaned on heavily as this person made their way painstakingly to the fence. Axe in hand, Sandor had walked over only to discover this person, who had emerged from nowhere, was a young woman. She was badly beaten, her face so swollen she could not utter words. She was very pregnant as well, collapsing into Sandor’s arms the moment she felt safe. 

Sandor had called for his mother and sister, the two of them rushing out to take her inside. There had been a lot of commotion, he remembered that. Many words he didn’t know or understood were spoken between the women, all of them linked to the health of her and her unborn child. He’d been sent out to fetch water from the well, while the woman was disrobed and checked for more injuries. An astute child, Sandor had taken his time getting the water, knowing the women wanted their privacy as they took on the delicate task of assessing her condition. When he did return, Sandor remembered how the battered young woman had cried to feel the kick of the child inside her, and how his sister and the other women had made her comfortable by the fire. 

His mother had always taken in strays, perhaps he had inherited part of her nature. Yet, not more than two days later two men came to the farm. Both on horses and with swords, they were big men. Not as big as Sandor’s father or brother, but they were not there to protect them. They’d come looking for their wife and sister, demanding Sandor’s mother give her up. As a young boy, he was afraid because he’d never seen his mother come out of the house with her sword belt on. Nor had he seen men like this tower so intimidatingly over her. Sandor had cried out, tried to run to his mother to protect her, only to be held back by his sister. 

Tears ran down his face as the discussion between the two men and his mother became more heated. They laughed at her when she challenged them to a fight, spat at her when she called them cowards. Then, when the brother of the woman went for his sword, Ylva was faster. With one well practiced motion she severed his sword hand from his arm, brought the blade around and ran him through. She turned it, pulling out a fair amount of his guts in the process. The husband of the woman managed to get his sword out of its sheath, but was already on the back foot as his mother advanced on him. Their swords met, the younger shield maidens put their hands on their own swords, ready in the event his mother would be slain. It wasn’t much of a show, the man managed to block her sword a couple of times, but was not ready for his mother to adjust her strategy. She went low, slicing him on the leg behind the knee, and when he fell on both knees, she swung again and decapitated him. A quick and painless death for a man who had inflicted great pain on his wife. 

The young boy had never seen a man without a head before, muchless his mother inflict such justice on anybody. He’d been in shock, his mind racing to bring the pictures of a caring mother, and a fierce warrior together. His mother knelt down and put both of her bloody hands on his face. “Fear no man when you have done the right thing, child. The gods will always provide. I could not let her go back to these men, they beat her for not making their dinner. You have a duty, my son. You must always protect those weaker than yourself. Always.”

_ Yes,  _ Sandor thought. It wasn’t quite the same arrangement he had with Brienne but he felt the same sense of duty his mother had.  _ But the gods would not protect you against your own son. Why? _

That bit had always troubled Sandor, it had been the reason he’d forsaken the gods in the mountains. And yet, even after he had turned his back on them, they seemed to smile upon him. Gifting him great courage and strength. It was hard to accept Ylva’s fate. Even more difficult to be without her guidance. 

Sandor’s cup filled with ale, bringing him back to the feast. He glanced at Sansa, his eye moving to her neck and her breast. He lifted his cup so that he could reach out with a finger and stroke her hand which steadied the jug. It was a covert touch, one that made her eyes flash to his in surprise before finishing the pour and moving back to the wall where she was standing before. Filling cups and bringing meat did not suit her, not by far. She was made for bigger and better things, yet he knew he would have to gently bring others around to that thinking. This would take time. For now, he would have to treat her as a slave

“You watch her as if she will suddenly disappear into thin air,” Brienne said, leaning to speak in his ear above the revelry of the people inside the longhouse. These events were always loud and full of talking, laughing, fighting and music. 

Brienne was more perceptive than he had given her credit for. He was not doing well to cover up his affections for the girl, some things could not be helped. Though, until he knew who to trust, he needed to hide his feelings for her as much as possible. 

Without turning his head to her he answered, “Just wondering when I should expect her to put a knife in my back.” His tone implying disapproval at the training the Shield Maiden was giving his slave.

At that his counterpart did laugh, causing Tormund to look over at them with a jealous stare. “She is a brave little thing, I cannot deny it. But then again, to survive your advances she has to be,” Brienne said, not backing down.

It was a slight that would not go unanswered, even if it was an admirable one. Sandor pulled his head back, turned to her and raised an eyebrow. Part of him wanted this. He wanted there to be conflict between him and Brienne so that Sansa might profit. Yet, even a Jarl had to know their place amongst equals. 

“Bravery, survival, lust.” Sandor moved quickly, gripping Brienne’s wrist tight and forcing it on the table. The Viking held her tightly, knowing he was inflicting pain, and pleased that she fought not to show weakness in front of him. He’d done it such that nobody else in the room would notice, or give her followers in the room cause to draw their weapons. Only those on the table would have seen it, and heard the way he smacked her wrist onto the hard wooden table. Asha and Tormund both turned to face the situation, their hands on their weapons.

Sandor took a moment to stare them both into submission before bringing his lips to Brienne’s ear. “The girl drips so wet for me every night that I’ll wager it's lust. But this is the last time we’ll discuss my property civilly.” His threat landed like a punch in the gut to the woman, making her nod her head in acceptance. 

He grabbed a leg of goat, ripped off a piece of it and began to speak as if nothing had happened. “I’ve sent out my scouts to report on Gregor. But what would you suggest we do about our shared problem?”

Sandor’s eyes watched Sansa as she adeptly avoided an overly drunken man. Brienne sipped her ale in a way that almost made him bark out a condescending laugh. After a moment she responded, “It would not make much sense for him to attack in winter. That means we have time now to gain support from the other Jarls. My boats are swift, we could build our alliances before Gregor has finished building his army.”

The Viking mulled this solution over in his head. Gaining more support from the scattered clans around Sverike would mean leaving for a month or more. Traveling around, striking deals -- leaving Sansa alone. He had only just brought her here and was not keen to abandon her. He was also not keen to advertise to every Jarl who they would meet that she was special enough a thrall to bring her with him everywhere he went. However, they had no way of knowing how many his brother would assemble -- which meant the more support and fighters they could win to their side the better. 

Stroking his beard Sandor continued drinking ale while watching the debauchery unfold in front of him. What had started out as laughing and drinking, was slowly advancing to heavy petting in many different configurations of men and women. Celebrations were not just to thank the gods, but also to bring people closer together. Farmers who had little contact with the outside world, widows looking for a husband, men looking for sex, or even for a wife they had not yet thought of. The influx of women from Brienne’s camp made this evening particularly interesting, watching the come hither stares and rejections unfolding in their own time.

Leaning on the arm of his chair on the dias, cut off from the crowd, Sandor felt all the unamused ruler he did not want to be. He had not chosen this life for himself, it had instead cornered and forced itself upon him. In that moment he would have given anything to be in a dark corner of the long house with his thrall, finishing what they had started hours before. 

_ Soon,  _ he reminded himself. 

Tapping him on the shoulder, Tormund motioned Sandor to lean in so they could speak. “What do you think?” He asked, as if Sandor was reading his mind, which he wasn’t.

“About?” Sandor asked, tilting his head to the side as he did so. 

Tormund looked down the table and Brienne, raising his eyebrows in that goofy way he thought was sexy, but just made him look out of touch.Then he started to move his hand toward a motion that would indicate pussy to pussy. In other words two women fucking in the most dirty way. Sandor grabbed his friend’s hands and brought them under the table before anybody could notice. 

Now it made sense why his friend was so eager for his attention. Sandor knew better than most how the sexuality of shield maidens had been mythologized by common male warriors. It fed into this strange place they occupied in society. Revered for their strength, courage, and beauty, yet feared because it made men feel like they had no place in their lives. So it was common place to consider them all more interested in women than men, or even to the exclusion of men. That was what Tormund was asking, for Sandor’s insight into whether Brienne wanted a man or not. 

Rolling his eyes at Tormund, Sandor leaned in. “Who bloody gives a shit? She’ll fancy what she wants to fancy. But I can guarantee you that if all you bring to the table is your cock, it’s not going to win her over.”

His good friend’s cheeks flushed in anger at his harsh words, “I have other assets,” he snapped.

“Like?” Sandor raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Well…” Tormund started, having trouble formulating his words. “...my strong warrior’s seed for one.”

Sandor snorted a laugh, only fueling his friend to continue. “And my sword.”

“One has to do with your cock, the other is euphemism for your cock. I don’t see what you’ve got of any value to offer a woman like that.” Sandor was pushing Tormund, wanting him to really see that none of his usual tactics would work with Brienne.

“Then what do I do?” Tormund’s anger turned to dread in a matter of moments. 

“No idea. Why don’t you just talk to her instead of looking over at her with those creepy eyes? Get to know her. And don’t treat her like an oddity.” Sandor put his hand on Tormund’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I just wanna….” His friend began. 

“Then just fucking do it…” Sandor interjected. No sooner had he finished that thought, than the door of the longhouse was kicked open. All music and festivities stopped, while all eyes turned to the person who entered.

_ Son of a bitch,  _ was nearly muttered out loud when Sandor’s eyes fell on the intruder.  _ Harry Hardyng, of the people to show their faces now.  _

He glanced at Brienne and Asha, their swords were out, along with several other of the women in the common room. For what it was worth Hardyng seemed equally surprised to see her there, and though his hand hadn’t even gone to his sword belt yet, his bodyguards had theirs at the ready.

“You eat and drink with that cow?” Harry’s shrill came from across the room. He didn’t have to point to Brienne, Sandor knew who he was talking about based solely on context. But it seemed just another effort to make her even more pissed off with him than she already was. 

_ I’ll not be cleaning blood from the floor tonight,  _ Sandor told himself. 

Sandor stood to this full height, which meant he towered over everybody from the dias. “You come into my feast, and call my guest a cow?” There was a collective gasp, a tense silence.Sandor’s deep voice bellowed threateningly through the room. “Guess you grew some hair on those balls over the summer time, Hardyng.” 

There was a pause, a collective holding of breath before Harry broke into cautious laughter. Sandor grinned in response. That lightened the mood, as the swords dropped and the others joined in on the joke. 

“Get in here out of the cold you son of a bitch.” Sandor left the dias to greet his guest, attentive to the energy of the room. He embraced the boy weary of what was to come next. Though he did not think of Harry as dangerous, one word or signal could turn this feast into a massacre. If there was one thing you could bet on, it was that Harry had a thin skin. So he would need to be cautious.

There was no way he could win here, to turn Harry away would be a slight not just against the boy, but also against how he handled his neighbors. At a time like this, with Gregor plotting his demise, it was not wise to leave him out. Of course bringing him in to stay in the village with Brienne, would be like throwing two cats in a bag, tying it and tossing it in a lake. He would have to stay cool and make sure those two didn’t get too close to one another, and didn’t let their tempers overflow.

“But I’m serious, my friend,” Harry whispered in Sandor’s ear as they greeted one another. “Has she come here to beg for scraps?”

Sandor put both hands on the boy’s shoulders. It was a typical way of greeting, but it covered up the more direct conversation they were having. “Seems her camp was raided, and her stores drained. You wouldn’t happen to know which outlaws are responsible, would you?” 

Sandor had used the word outlaw with purpose, making it clear how he felt about such treachery. To live as an outlaw was to have no civilized area help you, it meant roughing it on your own in the harshest of environments. It was basically a death sentence. 

A sheepish look flashed across his features briefly, then Harry answered in a defiant voice, “A bunch of women defending grain stocks. What did they expect?” 

_ A hubristic boy. A stupid boy,  _ Sandor thought. 

Harry squeezed the back of Sandor’s neck and smiled, “Come now, friend, why would you think I had anything to do with that? I’m not pleased she took half the women in my region and made them sword wielding men haters, but she did win fair and square.”

The boy’s words didn’t put Sandor at ease. However he also couldn’t gauge Harry’s involvement in the raid either. Had he merely heard about it? Had he helped plan it? As of yet, Sandor couldn’t say. “Eat.” He said. “Your men must be hungry and tired.”

The glares of Brienne and Asha were enough to turn any normal man to stone, but they could do nothing to deny Sandor his wishes to bring another Jarl to the head table. The tension was thick, which was why Sandor pushed Tormund next to Brienne -- to both distract her and keep more than a sword’s length between her and her foe. 

Reading the room, the initial surprise of Harry’s arrival had subsided. While his men and Brienne’s women did not mingle, that didn’t seem to disturb the jovial air of the event. Sandor shared some ale with the son of his friend, and wondered what secrets he had within him. Gregor had always done what he could to exert influence over Hardyng’s region. What he could not do with the father, he had laid the groundwork for with the son. Taking him from a young age and grooming him -- rewarding him when he did what Gregor wanted and disciplining him when he did not. 

Sandor sat back, listening to the young man’s incessant chatter only half-heartedly. His eyes slowly drifting back to Sansa. He raised his cup to indicate it was empty, her eyes burned a curse in his direction, but she came over anyway. 

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve and sending Sansa a pretty boy smile, Harry muttered some introductory words whilst tripping over his tongue. She paid no attention to him, amusing Sandor beyond words, while filling Sandor’s cup in a huff. A good temper would only make her better in bed. Pent up emotions they could eagerly act out between the furs. 

“You’re thralls need to learn their manners,” Harry said, his eyes now following Sansa back to the side of the common room where she had been standing. Sandor knew the boy liked being denied by women, he was all about the chase and nothing about the follow through. They called him Harry the Heir, not because his father was Jarl before him, but because he had so many heirs by so many different women it was hard to know how many would have claim over his territory in due time. 

Part of Sandor was jealous of Harry. Whether he raised his own children or not, the boy had many sons who would carry his name and his memory long after he died. Sandor, on the other hand, had nothing. All his great deeds, all of his war stories would be lost to the sands of time were he to die without an heir at all. 

Shifting uncomfortably, Sandor spoke. “Don’t get bent out of shape, boy. She just wants a man, with hair on his chest and a cock bigger than a pinky finger.”

At that Harry narrowed his eyes, clearing disapproving Sandor’s jape but taking it all the same. Sandor smirked. The boy took his words because he had to, because he knew Sandor could best him easily in a fight. And yet, that didn’t answer the big question swimming around in Sandor’s head. “So where’s Gregor?”

“Ask Odin,” the boy replied. “The last I heard he was dead. Injured in an Eastern Raid. I came here with my riches,” he pointed to a couple of chests in the corner, “I’, eager to divi up the goods and be on my way.”

It was too easy to say Gregor was dead, too simple to merely gloss over it as if it were nothing. Then again, now that it was said it would fall to Sandor to either prove or disprove him. Believe or not believe him. It wasn’t a good position to be in. Not with outlaws roaming the land uprooting whole villages and rumors of armies coming from the east to undermine him. 

“So you’re not attached to his hairy teat? Seems you’re full of surprises, Hardyng.” Sandor was testing him, watching every facial expression with a heightened interest. He’d always given the boy shit. To deviate from that now would be to draw suspicion to himself and his motives for digging deeper.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” The boy answered sarcastically. “The truth is I haven’t heard from him since the beginning of the summer. And nobody I know has seen him either.”

“If he is, as you say, “with the gods,” then who did you hear it from?” Sandor’s words were sharp, like steel on a grindstone.

“Traders, bards, the usual. He was such a great warrior, it seems almost a waste,” Harry eyed Sandor a moment, “But not to you for sure.”

“No,” Sandor confirmed. His mind was swimming with the possibilities. If his brother had indeed been killed, then it would make sense that others, like Brienne, would take advantage of the situation. Begin moving in on the weaker Jarls before building up enough men and resources to take on the bigger ones. That might explain the reason for the holmgang and the subsequent raid of her territories. At the same time, she had brought back very convincing evidence of what Gregor was plotting. 

_ Something doesn’t add up,  _ his head spinning, Sandor saw Brienne and Tormund motion him to the door from across the room. He was exactly where he didn’t want to be, between two Jarls with different motivations -- both wanting something from him he was unwilling to give.  _ Who am I to believe? Both of them? Neither of them? _

Rubbing the boy’s shoulder, Sandor made like he was going to take a piss. He meandered through the crowd of people to the side door of the longhouse. Rounding the corner he found Tormund and Brienne conveniently getting a breath of fresh air. Their eyes were enough to read their minds, it made him even more unsure of how much he wanted to disclose. 

“He says Gregor is dead,” Sandor started, his eyes searching the darkness for evesdroppers. 

“That’s ridiculous... “ Brienne began but Sandor raised his hand to silence her.

“He says he was killed in battle in the east. Harry is merely here to divide the loot and be on his way.” He saw Brienne begin to speak, so he quickly continued, “He claims to know nothing of the outlaws who ruined your camp.”

Brienne’s cheeks flamed in anger and he could see Tormund shaking his head in disbelief. “Does he have proof your brother is dead?” She asked finally, a determination in her eyes that endeared her even more to Sandor.

“Hearsay,” Sandor answered simply, also at a loss for what to do. 

“You know the boy is fickle,” Tormund piped up. “He could be coming here to see if we’ve joined forces, scout how many able bodied men we have, then report back to Gregor once the Council of Jarls is over.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sandor stroked his beard in thought. His ginger friend was not wrong. It was often in these moments of bizarre fate that Tormund demonstrated the most insight. Sandor eyed the moon from where they stood. It was still a thin crescent, which meant they had time before the Council of Jars was to commence. It was not uncommon to welcome Jarls days and weeks before the meeting. 

“He lies. It can’t be,” Brienne said shaking her head. “We should venture out. Talk to some of our neighboring territories, and both get their allegiance and gather more information.” 

“That could be what he wants us to do,” Tormund said. “Throw in a bit of chaos to the mix, have us go on a wild goose chase to weaken us.”

“Or he could be an idiotic boy with a jarldom who listens to the words of any pretty female bard he meets,” Sandor cut in, before the conversation digressed any further into speculation. “I do not trust him, but at the same time I have never known him to be misleading. Naive, yes. Stupid, sure.”

Two sets of blue eyes stared at him, begging for a decision. “I need the night to think it over. You’ll have a decision in the morning.” 

That seemed to appease the pair, for now. “In the meantime let’s not take chances. Harry and his men will be put up on the far side of the village, where we can keep an eye on them. Tormund, stay with Brienne. You know this country better than anybody. If something were to happen, I trust you to get her and her closest allies to safety.”

Sandor could see the eyes of his friend light up. He’d basically set them up to share a room tonight, if not a bed. A longhouse with all the shield maidens you could ask for wasn’t a poor prize to protect, but he knew his friend was good for it. And that such a job would keep him loyal.

“And you?” Brienne asked. 

“I always sleep with one eye open,” Sandor said curtly before heading back into the longhouse. 

When he entered the common area the mood was different. Drinking and laughing had turned to more carnal pursuits, ones Sandor couldn’t argue with. Harry was no longer at the main table on the dias, which concerned him. As his eye swept the room Sandor noticed the young Jarl in a dark corner, hand on the wall leaning over a woman. The boy shifted his weight, revealing a flash of auburn which could only be from Sansa. 

It took no more than four long strides to cross the room where the arrogant boy was attempting to make a move on his thrall. Sandor gripped Harry aggressively on the shoulder, but found it odd that the boy did his best to remain perfectly still. It was when he looked between Harry and Sansa, who had her back against the wall, that he understood why. 

Sandor didn’t know where she’d gotten the dagger from, only that she had it firmly pressed to Harry’s belly, her blue eyes narrowed. Sansa had clearly caught him off guard, and had been only moments away from ridding Sandor of one of his biggest problems. 

“Glad you’re here, brother. This bitch…” Harry began before Sandor grabbed him by the neck and slammed him hard against the wall. 

“It looks to me like you almost got killed by a thrall covered in pickled herring. Good thing I happened to see the whole thing and save you from a slow, and rather embarrassing death.” He said his words through gritted teeth.

The boy’s eyes went wide when he realized Sandor would not punish the girl for what she’d done. He tried to speak, but the angry Viking gripped the boy’s throat tighter. “Let me make one thing very clear,” Sandor continued, sharing a glance with Sansa that he knew well from their time on the English beach. “You don’t touch my thralls. They aren't here for your pleasure.”

Sandor released his hold on the young Jarl, allowing the boy’s feet back to the ground. Harry threw the Viking a defiant look, then went to straighten his tunic and jerkin. Hardyng looked over at Sansa like a dejected teenager, sneered, then left. 

The Viking searched Sansa’s eyes, cupping her cheek affectionately. He gently slipped the blade out of her grasp. It only then occurred to him that he could not hide his love of her, and he did not want to. They belonged together. They were bonded. Whether Christian or Pagan, Jarl or Slave, the gods had made her for him and only him. 

Sandor brought her forehead to his and sucked in breath. He could feel her do the same, relaxing in his grasp. “I’ll always protect you, my heart. Even if you can protect yourself.” He smiled and handed the blade back to her hilt first. Sansa returned his smile, then slipped the knife between her apron and skirt. 

Taking Sansa gently by the forearm, he walked her through the crowd back to his room, only a few steps beyond the chaos of the feast. He motioned for Lisandre to follow them. 

“Get her in a bath. I want her smelling nice,” his words were simple and clear to the young girl. 

There was a small bath house just behind his longhouse. The private entrance to the bedroom led right to it. Sandor then promptly swatted Sansa on the ass with a sheepish grin as Lisandre took her out the door. He wanted her to know his intentions for later and couldn’t wait until they would be able to finally bond in a deeper way.

Once they were gone Sandor sat on his bed a moment, running his fingers through his hair. He needed to clear his head, take a step back from all the things happening and try to make sense of them. Somewhere in this whole mess of a story there was betrayal. The Viking knew if he wasn't smart about it he, and those close to him, could end up dead. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
